


What You Think Is Right

by icepower55



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Drama, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Major Illness, Marriage, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Minor, POV First Person, Post-War, Realism, Recovery, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23957341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icepower55/pseuds/icepower55
Summary: You gave me a tight smile when you caught me staring; your cheeks bunched into strained parenthesis. You hated when I looked at you like that,like a puzzle to solve.But I knew how hard you were trying, how even if you didn’t know what to say you always did something. That was enough for me; I thought we would be all right, Draco.Six years after the war, Hermione parents are dying and her marriage to Draco is crumbling. Nothing seems logical in her life anymore. Her healer tells her to start writing about it, so she does, as a way to figure things out, and remind herself along the way.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 578
Kudos: 624
Collections: Dramione Favorites, Dramione Fics that Own My Soul, dm fanfics, literally god tier fan fics I cannot live without





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool) and [Endless_musings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endless_musings/pseuds/Endless_musings/works)
> 
> All of them are such an important part of the team. 
> 
> And lastly, come say hi on tumblr [@icepower55!](https://icepower55.tumblr.com/)

_November 4th, 2004_

The television blared. I hated the noise, and the senseless lights, the bright bursts of blood across the screen. It always disoriented me–the special effects–made me wonder how my own magic compared, what I was capable of.

I forget the name of the movie we were watching. Or that I was watching. A man who looked quite a bit like Harry–if Harry had shaved his head and gotten rid of his glasses–was bowled over, his face shiny from an exploded water balloon.

“It’s fucking piss,” Harry’s doppelganger shouted, and a sudden, violent urge to laugh seized me because I thought of you, how you would have said something mocking, but without real vitriol: _Now you’ve really earned your moniker, haven’t you, Potty?_

I always hear your voice, you know? I wonder if it’s the same for you.

To my right, a low, brittle moan escaped. A lump shifted beneath the blankets, and then: “Mione? What are you still doing here?”

“Hi, Dad.”

He laid his palms flat on the bed, fisting the tan blankets between his fingers.

“Shouldn’t you be getting home? Won’t he worry?” His voice was paper-thin and raspy. He blinked, erratic and twitchy, tapping out morse code with his eyelids.

“It’s fine. He knows.” The steady pull and _thump thump thump_ of the ventilator rattled around the room. “How are you feeling?”

The cracks in his lips opened when he smiled, and I reached for the tube in my bag, swiping my hand over the wedged tip and leaning forward without thinking.

“Don’t,” his fingers spasmed against his thigh. “I hate how sticky it is.”

“Right.” I rubbed the oily blob between my thumb and pointer finger and dropped my hand. “But you’re bleeding.”

He licked his lips, and I could see the patchy white spots on his tongue. “Don’t worry. It’ll close soon. And the nurses always come and force ointment on me anyways.”

His eyes were slitted in focus, neck nearly folded in on itself.

“Do you want me to move the bed up?”

He jerked his head, his chin brushing against the wiry grey hairs peeking out of his hospital gown. “No, it’s alright. I’ll go back to sleep soon anyways.”

“Are you in pain?”

Another smile. “You should go, Hermione.”

“I know.” I got up from the chair and moved to the other side of the room. The light above the top of the bed was out, leaving the shape of mum’s body illuminated while her face remained shadowed and pale, mouth lax around the plastic tube snaked inside.

“Do you think she can hear us?”

“I don’t know.”

We both stared at her, the blue digits of her vitals blinking back at us.

“We could transfer your care, you know. To the teaching hospital near our place in London. The costs wouldn’t be an issue.” Her chest rose in steady waves, the only disturbance in her otherwise still form. “And I just think an urban hospital would have more resources than here.”

“Darling, I love you, but–” he coughed, mouth puckering. I reached towards the water on the bedside table, but he waved me off. “–you really shouldn’t be such a swot. It’s bad enough that you and Draco are forcing us into a private hospital when the NHS is perfectly capable of providing adequate care. I’m putting my foot down on making us medical tourists.”

“It’s two hours away, Dad. Not in a different continent.”

He grinned, and I couldn’t help but grin as well. “Your mother and I want to stay in our community. It’s where” –another cough rattled through, drawn out and bone dry–“all of our friends are...If anything were to happen, we’d want–”

“Please don’t.” My lips flattened, rounding against the edge of my front teeth. An orange streak of sunset wobbled in my periphery, and I blinked until it righted itself. “I know.”

I looked up. Maybe if you were here, you would have pinched the edge of my palm. _Hermione, hold it together._

“Sweetheart, you look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should go home and get some rest.”

The door clicked open and we both turned. “Miss Granger,” I closed my eyes but didn’t bother to correct him. “I was just coming to check on your parents.”

“Hello, Dr. Marron.”

He stopped by mum’s bedside first, carefully readjusting the clear tubes threaded across her body. “We’ll be doing rounds soon.”

“I know. I’ll leave soon. I just wanted to drop by early today.”

Dr. Marron smiled, glancing at me while he laid the palm of his hand flat against Dad’s abdomen, pressing his fingers down and moving in a slow circle. “Ever the dutiful daughter.”

“Too dutiful,” Dad rasped. “You ought to convince her to go home, doctor.”

“Far be it for me to tell a woman what to do.” He shined a light into Dad’s eyes, squinting as he moved the beam back and forth. “It never ends well, you know.”

They laughed, and then Dad’s face contorted, shoulders shaking with the force of his coughs. I counted down the seconds and was still counting when it abruptly ended and he leaned back, palm rubbing his chest. Dr. Marron handed him a paper cup of water.

I reached for my bag, feeling supplementary and useless.

“Miss Granger, a word please?” The doctor had his hand on Dad’s shoulder, guiding him into a seated position. He pressed the stethoscope down, gesturing for me to wait as he listened, eyes squinted in concentration.

“Bye, Dad.” I waved, and then, feeling stupid, I dropped my hand and said, “I love you.” I turned, my voice rising, like maybe a few more decibels would be all I needed to wake her up. “And you too, mum.”

In the hallway, we passed a blur of azalea-pink scrubs, and the doctor nodded to a few, his stride so light and fast that his camel loafers blurred against the linoleum.

“My office,” he said, shouldering open the stairwell door and motioning for me to go first. His office was on the third floor, a small room swallowed by a wood desk cluttered with files.

Across from me, a wall of certifications and diplomas framed his shock of copper hair as he sat. His unnaturally bright blue eyes skimmed across a file before looking up, eyebrows pulled together in thought.

“I apologize for the short notice, and for not being able to sit down with you and talk sooner, but I wanted to review your parents’ condition today.”

He spoke slowly, like he was witholding a punchline.

“When Dr. Chase asked me to take over this case, he mentioned that your parents have been a very....unusual case.”

“Yes,” I cleared my throat, “I suppose they have.”

“I don’t want to alarm you,” he said, “but I wanted to talk to you about their treatment plan, and how we will be moving forward.” He paused, lacing his fingers together. “In addition to the testing that Dr. Chase and his team did, we ran a variety of tests as well, but we have not been able to identify what’s caused the sudden decline in your parents’ health. The contemporaneous onset and similarities of the symptoms between the two of them led us to believe it must be environmental, a toxin or a virus.”

He paused, and when I didn’t respond, he inhaled and continued. “At this point, with all the tests we’ve run, it seems unlikely to be a toxin. Your parents do, however, have some markers of inflammation, which suggests autoimmunity of some sort. Hermione,” he had to say my name twice. A finch outside the window swept downwards in a graceful arc before jetting up, “are you familiar with what an autoimmune disease is?”

“A condition in which your body’s immune system begins to attack its own tissue,” I recited, the textbook’s lines crisp on my tongue. “The body’s security system suddenly attacks what is native and familiar.”

“You’ve done your research, I gather.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Though I admit I’m not acquainted with that particular analogy.”

“That’s all I do now.”

“Your parents have some symptoms of these types of disease, and autoimmune conditions can be notoriously tricky to diagnose, but–”

“But it couldn’t just be that.” My voice came out flat. “Their rapid decline, the aggressive deterioration. It couldn’t just be that, it would be too…”

“Simplistic, yes. It would be blaming the security system for the collapse of the infrastructure,” he cleared his throat, and I felt a sudden surge of pity for him, stumbling to explain what I already knew. “Sorry, I was trying to match your analogy.”

I stared, counting the splash of freckles underneath his eyes.

“Miss Granger–”

“Hermione,” I corrected.

“Hermione,” he repeated, “is there anyone you want to contact? Any other family? Aunts or uncles? Siblings, perhaps?”

“There’s no one else. It’s just me.” He exhaled. “You’re telling me you’re giving up.”

“No, of course not, but I’m telling you that there are certain preparations–”

“Don’t,” I put up my hand. “Please. Not now, at least.”

He stared at me like I was a frightened animal. His eyes really were the most unnatural shade of blue, Draco, like the glittering stalactites we saw on our trip to Belize.

“Your father is getting worse. His decreasing lung capacity is consistent with what happened before your mother-”

“I know that,” I breathed. “I can see that.”

“He’s also...his memory has been getting worse.” I wanted, badly, for him to stop. I started to play this game: What if I got up and knocked over the letter tray on his desk? Shoved all the files off? Ripped the frames down from the wall? What would make him stop?

I saw your reaction in my mind, the curve of your lip. _There you are, Granger._

“Hermione,” he said the vowels of my name soft and cautiously, “does your family have a history of neurodegenerative disease?” I imagined transfiguring the books on his shelves into a swarm of crows, the violence of their voices loud enough to drown everything else out.

I shook my head.

“Did your parents suffer any sort of trauma prior to their symptoms?”

 _Yes_ , I wanted to say, but only to keep from experiencing greater trauma. A zero sum game: the emotional trauma of forgetting their daughter for a year to prevent the physical trauma of Death Eaters showing up at their door.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “It’s...it’s hard to say.”

Dr. Marron gave me an odd look. “You don’t know?”

“There–there was a period of time I was out of the country. I was away, on assignment, for my job...I wasn’t able to communicate as frequently with them.”

“How long were you gone?”

“I–is this pertinent to the question?”

He blinked. “I want to establish a clear diagnostic timeline. It’s important that we identify any symptoms that may have been over–”

“Nine months and a day,” I said, “but it was longer, before they saw me again.” There was over a year of searching for them, followed by another half a year of spells and potions and healers, months spent trying to reverse what I had done. And then there was that period when they wouldn’t speak to me yet, but I usually didn’t include that one.

I had been successful, and then, _this_.

_“I think,” I said, my voice cracking through the floo, “that they’ll have to go to the hospital. Dad has all these...rashes over his body, and his chest hurts, he says. And mum, she...she just keeps moaning that everything hurts.”_

_“I’ll come right now,” you said. “We’ll portkey them to St. Mungo's and–”_

_“Draco, they’ll have to go to a muggle hospital...Mum’s GP said if her symptoms got worse she should go to the A &E. I-I don’t know too much about the hospital system where they live, which ones are good or–”_

_You were silent for a moment, and then: “I’ll handle it. All of it. Just wait for me there.”_

I don’t know what you had to do. Who you called to get them admitted so quickly, to get all those tests run so soon. Did I ever ask you? I must have.

“So when you came back, everything was fine?”

I shrugged. “More or less. There was nothing that I thought was more than...general aging, but then a few months after my 22nd birthday, things got worse.”

The doctor looked startled, his eyebrows rising as he shifted in his chair. “You’re very young,” he said, slowly, and then: “I apologize, I just thought with what you said about your job and–”

I started laughing, with that laugh of mine that you hate, Draco. The one that makes my eyes teary, until you can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying. I laughed and laughed while he stared at me with his unnaturally blue eyes, until finally I stopped, unfurling my shoulders and composing myself enough to say, between giggles: “Yes, I suppose I am. I forget that myself sometimes.”

* * *

Outside, the drizzle threatened to turn into a downpour, and I hurried to the apparition point, gasping against the familiar squeeze of magic around my sides before I landed unsteadily on brick.

I stumbled, bashing my knee against the planter vase framing the door. “Christ.” The hydrangeas shivered, their leafy arms dancing as I rubbed my knee. You were always telling me to move the damn plants.

_They’re a hazard._

_But in the spring they’re so lovely. It’s nice to have some color out here, especially if you insist on having a black door._

I should have listened to you. You were right more than I let on.

The door opened, and from my crouched position, all I saw was a wall of black fabric.

“You’re home.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“With all the banging about, it was either you or the entire Weasley clan.”

Your words were light, but when I straightened all I saw was a flash of blonde hair as you retreated into the house.

“How was work today?”

“Fine–I have some paperwork to finish, so I’ll be in my study until dinner.” Your footsteps paused on the stairs, waiting for my answer.

“Oh, alright.” I bent over and removed my boots; I had thought we could go for a walk. “I’ll get dinner started then.”

The fridge was surprisingly full even though I had forgotten to go grocery shopping again. You had restocked my favorite yogurt, stacked in a pyramid on the bottom shelf, the kind that they only had at the muggle supermarket down the street. It made me smile, suddenly, to imagine you standing there under that awful fluorescent lighting, disoriented by the loud speaker and the screaming children zigzagging between aisles of seasonal vegetables.

It made me miss you.

I embarrassed myself with dinner, the noodles of the spaghetti bolognese overcooked and soggy. You didn’t say anything, but I saw you cut your pieces smaller and smaller, feigning progress. I know you missed the house elves, all of them freed since I moved in. I would have never admitted it, but sometimes I wished they were back too, if not only for the extra noise in the house.

We ate in silence, and I thought about apologizing, but I wasn’t sure what I’d be saying sorry for. Sometimes I felt like all I did was talk, but I never really said anything anymore: How are you? What would you like for dinner? Is it cold outside today? Everything insufficient and tepid.

You sipped wine and stared down at your plate, the jerky drag of your knife across the porcelain the only clue to what you were thinking.

What did you do at work today? How were things coming along? Did you want to do something after dinner? I keep going back to these instances and thinking of all the things I should have asked.

I had barely set down my fork before you levitated it to the sink, a trail of our dishes following. We both watched as the sponge whipped across the plates, your wand arcing every few moments to keep the pattern going.

“I’m sorry I forgot to go grocery shopping.”

You shrugged.

“I can cook again tomorrow instead. I know you hate going to the muggle grocery store.” I wanted to thank you for the yogurt, but you were looking at the dishes.

“Tomorrow is Blaise’s birthday. We have the dinner party.”

“Right.”

“You forgot.” You said it like a statement.

“No. I just,” I looked up. “Sorry, I just have had a lot on my mind.”

“Of course.”

“Draco, I’ll be there...I just might be a little late.”

You stood up, knees bumping against the table. “It’s fine. You do what you feel is right.”

“Draco–”

“–How were they today?”

You were still standing, and I thought about my laughing fit in the doctor’s office, his startled blue eyes blinking owlishly back at me. I wanted to tell you about his face, how it seemed to pucker from shock, but no matter how I tried to frame it, the image came out deranged, all the funny bits buried under my too-loud laughter.

“Fine.”

“Any updates?”

“No, but my dad seemed to be in good spirits.”

“Good,” you pushed back your chair, long fingers curling against the ornate back. “I’m glad.” You didn’t ask anything about my mum, but I know you must have been thinking of her. “I’ll go with you tomorrow, if you want.”

“Don’t you have that meeting tomorrow?”

Your face shuttered, cheeks hollowing with your inhale. I hadn’t meant to brush you off, but I didn’t want you to miss out on anything important for me; I didn’t want you to have to keep doing that.

“Right. The meeting.”

“I just mean–”

“It’s fine, Hermione.”

I exhaled. A beat passed, but you were still standing there. “Should I be expecting you in bed tonight? Or will you be preoccupied?” You said the last part like it was a dirty word.

“I’ll be late,” I said. Your jaw tensed, and I continued. “I have some more research I need to do...you shouldn’t wait up.”

You closed your eyes, rubbed a knuckle between your brows. “I’m going to bed.”

* * *

_November 5th, 2004_

On Fridays we went to marriage counseling at our healer’s house, a plain tudor-style home in Godric’s Hollow. The hallway leading to her office was decorated entirely of clocks charmed to display how late each patient was running. The names, of course, were visible only to Susan.

I had to change our appointment four times in the last month to accommodate your schedule. You had been working from home lately, but spent your days locked away in your own study, the _whoosh_ of the floo the only confirmation I had that you really were stuck in meetings and not just avoiding me.

Or maybe you were stuck in meetings to avoid me.

Susan is young, with straight black hair and pale green eyes. She looked like the type of witch you’d have dated in school. If you hadn’t found her so annoying, I might have felt insecure.

I know you hated the sessions, but it meant a lot to me that you came. I hope you know that, Draco.

_“It’s not–Draco, I think going could really help us. Molly told me that when things were difficult between her and Arthur–”_

_“For Christ’s sake, are you really going to hold up the Weasleys as the paragon of successful marriages? In that case, should we start popping out brats to save our marriage too?”_

_I looked away, folding my arms around myself. “Healer Bard comes highly recommended….And I never said our marriage needed saving. I just need to know that you’re willing to try this, for us.”_

She gave us journals our first session, nondescript leather notebooks identical to the one you used as a planner. We were supposed to write to each other, record what we felt we couldn’t say. Today, she wanted us to read out loud from them. I hadn’t known we would be doing that, and I started to protest; the tips of my ears burning at the thought of you reading about me giggling to myself over yogurt. But you beat me to it.

“No.”

“No?” Susan dropped her quill, and leaned back slightly. “Mr. Malfoy, we cannot make progress here if you aren’t willing to let yourself be vulnerable.”

You scoffed. “Or perhaps we cannot make progress here because you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Susan smiled, her teeth white and straight. She looked like she had had muggle orthodontic work done. “Why do you think the thought of being vulnerable upsets you so much?”

“I never said that.”

“No, but your aversion to opening up in what is supposed to be a safe space–

“–Nothing about this feels particularly _safe_ or _inviting_ –”

“–I asked you to write journal entries to one another in order to facilitate open communication between you two–”

“–Writing in a bloody journal like it does anything–”

“–The journal lays the groundwork for our sessions and is a pivotal part of our discussions each week so–”

“–I didn’t do it.”

I turned to you, and you barely glanced at me. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

I looked down, picking at the skin around my thumb.

Susan sighed. “I understand you have other obligations, but the reason you come to these sessions is so that you can prioritize your marriage, and if you aren’t willing to put in the effort–”

“–Did I say that?” You leaned forward, fingers curled into the armrest so tightly the veins in your hands bulged. I want to reach out and touch you. “Did I fucking say I wasn’t willing to put in the effort?”

Susan said nothing, mouth pursed. And then she breathed out and her features relaxed. “Will you be able to complete your journal next week, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I don’t know,” you snapped. “But I suppose if this whole session hinges on the completion of the journal then today’s session is more or less _futile,_ so I believe we’re done now, aren’t we?”

You stared at Susan, and then me. It felt like you were asking me a question that I didn’t know the answer to. After a moment, you stood up and left, the door shutting with a hard click.

There was a soft _pop a_ nd then silence. My thumb bled, a ragged edge of skin dangled where I had ripped it. “I’m sorry,” I said, and Susan looked at me with something that felt like pity.

“It’s not your fault, Hermione.” Her voice sounded tinny and far away.

“But I think it could be.”

* * *

You were gone when I got home, but I closed the door to my study anyways. Fridays were now my letter-writing days. I wrote the stack of them in one sitting and then lined them up on the shelf above the fireplace, one for every day of the week. I never used transcription or duplication charms, and the tight loops of my words curled together in the later letters:

_St. Mungo's Muggle Relations Department_  
_Floor 8, Room 221_

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_I am writing, once again, to appeal the denial of my request to transfer my parents to St. Mungo's for care. Due to recent developments, as noted in my latest letters, I strongly believe that my parents are experiencing complications of a magical nature. As such, that would overrule clause 285B prohibiting the treatment of non-magical beings at St. Mungo's._

I always kept the top half of the letter similar, but the bottom half sometimes differed: a quote from one of their doctors, an update on their worsening condition, a reminder of the Wizarding Hippocratic Oath. The replies were the same, written in an identical steady script: _insufficient evidence to suggest a magical malady, unusual timing from exposure to symptom onset, lack of resources and care to treat non-magical maladies._

Except for the most recent reply, which had Penelope Clearwater’s familiar words slanting across the parchment. _Miss Granger–Malfoy,_ it read, _I’m very sorry, but there’s nothing we can do. We have reviewed your parent’s cases, along with the medical records you sent last week, and there is no reason to believe that their symptoms are caused by the memory charm you performed, or any of the subsequent counter spells and potions. We have received all of your letters up to this point, but our decision has not changed and is binding. This is your final warning. Please desist from contacting this department again._

It’s strange, isn’t it? How quickly bureaucracy could reduce a relationship into fragments. She had been our partner when we were struggling to find the counter spells and potions needed to fix my parents. She had helped us procure the last ingredient, a fistful of scurvygrass, harvested exactly at midnight. She was our friend. Now she was just a closing salutation: Penelope Clearwater, Head of the St. Mungo’s Muggle Relations Department.

The night I showed you the letter, you were sitting at the kitchen island, nursing a cup of tea and marking up a document.

I dropped it in front of you, on top of whatever you were working on. You didn’t say anything as you read, just got up and kissed me on the forehead, your palm warm and firm against the back of my neck. I watched as you made me a cup of tea, hitting the perfect milk-to-sugar ratio, your hands confident with muscle memory.

You gave me a tight smile when you caught me staring; your cheeks bunched into strained parenthesis. You hated when I looked at you like that, _like a puzzle to solve_. But I knew how hard you were trying, how even if you didn’t know what to say you always did something. That was enough for me; I thought we would be all right, Draco.

* * *

You found me in my study later, surrounded by medical textbooks, squinting in the limp, yellow light coming from the lamp.

Your hair was slicked back, and you had on a light blue button down with black slacks, freshly pressed. I looked down at the sweatpants I had on, the white tank top spottled with earl grey stains. “Oh,” I said. “Shit, the party.”

“Right,” your eyes lingered on the mess of my hair, a pencil stuck haphazardly through the topknot, “the party.”

“I’m sorry,” I got up, knocking my hip into the desk and wincing. “I’ll go get dressed. I just lost track of time.”

“It’s fine. I assumed you would and floo-ed ahead to let him know.”

“Oh,” I felt relieved, and then, suddenly: very hurt.

“I’ll tell him you send your regards,” you held up a bag, the gold foil of a champagne bottle sticking through the top.

“I–thank you.” And then, because I couldn't help myself. “You could have asked, you know, if I wanted to come...I would have gotten ready. I just–lost track of time.”

“Hermione,” Your voice was flat. If I didn’t know better, I would think that you were bored, “you’ve been in here since three. I tried knocking earlier, but you didn’t even answer.”

“Oh.” I had silenced the room to drown out the noise of the children next door. Chastened, I tried again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. I could still get ready...you could go first and I could meet you there.”

“It’s fine...you do what you think is right.”

“I–why do you keep saying that? It makes me feel like, like this is some test you’re expecting me to fail.”

You looked down at your watch. “I don’t have time for this. I’m going to be late.” When you looked at me, it was like you were looking through me. “Come, or don’t come.”

I was still staring at the fireplace after you disappeared into the rush of green.

Crookshanks padded into the room and wound himself around my ankles. As I leaned down to pick him up, I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the fireplace. I walked closer and held him up so that our reflections touched, his worn fur bunching around my cheek as he blinked, irritated, back at me.

“What a sight the two of us are,” I murmured, squinting at my frizzy curls. I needed a shower, but it would take forever to dry my hair, and by the time it was dry and ready, I would be so late to the party.

You hated tardiness. A few months into dating, you gifted me a watch, terribly expensive and engraved. I had been touched and reluctant.

_“Draco, this is...too much.”_

_“Relax,” you slotted a finger through a curl, smiling when it bounced back up, “it’s for me anyways, so you’ll stop being twenty minutes late to every date.”_

_“That is a gross exaggeration, I’ll have you know, I am at most–’_

_“–Granger,” You kissed me, once on my nose, and once on my jaw, right below my ear. “Shut up and just take the watch.”_

_I bit my lip when your hand wound up my thigh, hiking up my skirt. You leaned forward and smirked, fingers stroking the soft skin behind my kneecap. We were on a bench in the park, and I held my breath, embarrassed and aroused._

_You stopped, leaving just a sliver of space between us. I was almost cross-eyed from looking at your lips. “And stop being late.”_

I fingered the leather band of the watch. Another twenty minutes had passed; I would be an hour and a half late at this point. You would be embarrassed, I thought, of how late I was. It was better that I didn’t go at all.

I made a lot of assumptions, didn’t I?

* * *

I heard you when you came home, gait heavy from what I imagined was Blaise’s impressive collection of scotch. I was in the bathroom, scrutinizing the dark circles under my eyes as I brushed my teeth. I waited until I heard you get into bed, the soft thump of your clothes hitting the floor, before I came out. You were bare-chested, palm splayed over the pages of a notebook to keep it flat. I blinked, but I remembered you didn’t have time to do Susan’s exercises. And then I felt sad at the way I could want something so bad that I could almost see what I wanted to.

“How was the party?” I leaned against the dresser, arms crossed over the toothpaste stain on my pajamas.

“It was good. Blase says hi, and Pansy says she’ll drag you out by the hair if you don’t return her owls,” you looked up, reading glasses perched on the edge of your nose. You looked adorable. “Are you…” you pointed at the empty space next to you.

“Oh, I–” I held up the medical textbook I had left on the dresser. “I was going to finish reading this–”

“–Right.”

“But I could stay, for a bit– if you wanted. I could stay and we could just talk.”

You smirked. “Talk as opposed to…?” I walked closer. I hadn’t seen you this playful in so long.

“Well, we could do that too,” I tried to pitch my voice lower, like an invitation. “If you wanted.”

You blinked. “If I wanted,” you repeated dryly. Your mouth was a perfect, flat line.

When had this gotten so hard? I was leaning against the bedpost, and I felt stupid standing there with my fingers curled around the wood, hip cocked out, a caricature of a seductress.

“What exactly do you want, Hermione?” You said it like a question, but the inflection was all wrong.

“I don’t know what you’re asking right now, Draco.”

“Right,” you scoffed. “Of course. Silly me for thinking you could just give me a straight answer.”

“Why are you being like this?” I sniffed. “Are you drunk?”

“Am I–” you sat up, tossing the notebook to the side. For one terrible second, I wanted you to yell, to scream, just so I could know what you were thinking. But then your shoulders deflated and you squeezed your eyes shut. “No, I’m just tired.”

“Oh,” My fingers fell from the bedpost, and I backed away. “I’ll just go and let you rest.”

You were still sitting like that, fingers pressed against the bridge of your nose, when I turned to leave.

You used to tell me I was brave, Draco, but I wasn't, then. Not with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“And if you honestly think that everything that’s happened–after all that I’ve given up for you–if you really think that another woman could mean anything to me,” you looked up, huffing out a sound between a chuckle and a scoff, “then you not only don’t trust me, you don’t know me.”_
> 
> _My fingers were clumsy around the collar of my blouse, tugging so hard I thought the linen might rip. You studied me, head tilted to the side. “Your problem is that you only ever see what you want to see.”_
> 
> _I licked my lips. I didn’t know what to say. As if sensing that, you nodded, and then with pop, you disappeared. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [@mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [@pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool)
> 
> As always, these ladies save me from myself all the time.

_November 6th, 2004_

I woke up to the sound of sloshing water. I squeezed my eyes tight, opened them to your blank stare, the planes of your face off-center in my field of vision. My arm was numb on the desk, my cheek wrinkled from the sleeve I had fallen asleep on, a wet splotch staining the fabric where my mouth had been open.

“I made you some tea,” you said. “Breakfast is on the counter. I put it under a stasis charm.” 

I rolled my neck, tiny pops cracking as the bones righted themselves. “Oh, thank you.” Medical journals were littered around me, one of them open to a case study about a muggle constable who developed multi-system organ failure. _The patient is notable_ the healers reported _for having been confounded multiple times over the years after continuously intercepting wizarding crime scenes._

Using my elbow, I pushed a textbook so that it slid over the notes I had been taking. “Have you already eaten?” 

“I have to go out for a bit.” You were dressed in pressed slacks and a forest green pullover, the half-moon of your polo collar lining the V of the sweater. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make dinner at The Burrow.” 

“Oh, I’m sure Harry and Ginny will be disappointed.” I could have said Ron, but I knew you wouldn’t appreciate the lie. “Where are you going?” 

“I have some business affairs to get in order.” 

I looked down at my watch. “And they’ll take the whole day?” 

“Yes,” you exhaled, lips pursing. “It’ll be a long day.”

“You’ll be in wizarding London?”

You blinked, and then: “Yes.”

“Alright.” I got up and moved towards you, stopping when there was only a forearm of space between us. I was going to squeeze your shoulder, a quick goodbye, but you were staring at me, the corners of your eyes pulled tight, and I thought, _Is he going to kiss me? How long has it been since he’s kissed me?_ You leaned in, so I tilted my head, but then your lips skimmed my cheek, cold and fleeting, and you muttered, “I’ll see you at home later.” 

You walked towards the fireplace. My fingers were pressed against my cheek, and I suddenly missed you so violently I wanted to tug you back, curl my fingers in the cashmere of your sweater and pull. But as you spun out of view, all I could think was: _Why isn’t he wearing robes if he’s going to wizarding London?_

* * *

  
I stopped by the hospital in the afternoon. After what had happened with Dr. Marron, I thought the room itself would look different. With the pretense sucked out, I thought I would finally see the scene for what it was: a ticking time bomb. 

But everything felt the same. Dad slept, and his snores intercepted the pauses between the _thump thump thump_ of mum’s ventilator. A glare from the sun washed out and muted the colors of the TV. Two hearts beat out a steady rhyme across their respective monitors

I was staring out the window when the nurse walked in; I heard her squeaky shoes before I saw her, but when I looked up, she gaped at me. 

“Oh,” she said, and then she closed her mouth before popping it open again. “I think I must be in the wrong room.” 

She hurried out, her hand stuffed into the pocket of her pants, like she was holding on to something. I almost laughed; I knew the nurses were a bit scared of me, but I really had only yelled that one time. 

Eloise, another nurse, walked in later while I was poring over a textbook. I had to hurriedly turn the page, hiding the moving diagram: the pale-pink sponges of the lungs contracting and expanding like a sideways accordion. 

“Oh, hullo Hermione. I didn’t expect to see you here.” She walked to mum first, adjusting the various sensors threaded around her body. “You usually don’t come on Saturdays.”

I hummed, closing the pages around my thumb, but making no move to put it away, hoping she’d take the hint. 

“No plans today?”

“No,” I said, clearing my throat, “not today.” I couldn’t remember the last time I had come on a Saturday. Even after things had curdled between us, we always spent Saturday together. 

_I turned my head, burrowing further into the pillow. “Draco, it’s so early, go back to sleep.”_

_You chuckled, ghosting a finger further down my spine. “If you don’t wake up soon, we’ll be late.”_

_I rolled onto my back, opening one eye to glare. “Late for what? It’s Saturday.”_

_You tried to tug down the sheet, and I pulled back at it. “It’s a surprise.”_

_“I hate surprises.”_

_I felt you smile against my collarbone. “You’ll like this one.” You pressed a kiss there, and then lower, and lower, until I forgot about sleep entirely._

Eloise didn’t say anything else, moving across the room with a sterile efficiency. I tried to continue reading, but the words rippled across the page, and a dull pain beat on behind my eyes. 

She was checking mum’s vitals as I left, her body hovering awkwardly over mum’s supine form. I glanced at Eloise’s azaleia-pink scrubs, raising a hand in goodbye, but her back was to me, and my mouth felt too dry to say anything.

* * *

  
The door to the burrow lurched open before I finished knocking, and then Ginny’s skinny arms were around me, squeezing too tight. 

“Hermione,” she said, “how are you?” She stepped back and took in the empty space beside me. “Where’s Malfoy?”

“He had some business to take care of.” George and Charlie passed by, each dropping a quick kiss against my cheek before moving towards the kitchen. 

“On Saturday?” Ginny glanced at me, eyebrows pulled together in surprise. 

I made a noncommittal sound, and she squeezed my arm. “That’s alright. We’ll just make sure you bring home some leftovers.” 

In the kitchen, there was the ritualistic exchange of hugs and kisses, Molly’s lined hands on my cheeks as she clucked over how thin I had gotten. No one else asked why you weren’t here, and I felt relieved, almost. 

We drank red wine out of coffee mugs as we waited for dinner. At one point, Ron and Ginny left to set the table, and Harry and I were left leaning against the corner of the counter, shoulders at right angles to one another. 

“How are they?” He asked, voice quiet. 

I shrugged, rocking the mug and watching the wine lick the edges of the ceramic. “They’re worse.” 

“I’m sorry.” He reached out and wrapped his palm around my wrist.

I let it rest there for a moment, and then I pulled back to take a sip of wine. 

“A colleague of mine,” he paused, cleared his throat, “he married a muggle. His wife has some health issues, and he said he could give me the name of some clinics if...” his voice trailed off. 

“Thank you,” I said, and I wanted to mean it. “But it’s not the hospital that’s the issue.” 

Harry pursed his lips, but he didn’t press the issue, and neither did I. 

Over dinner, I caught him staring at me a few times, like he wasn’t quite sure what to say. 

During a lull in the conversation, Percy asked about you. I was raising a forkful of shepherd pie to my mouth, and the question made me put the fork down and clear my throat. 

“Sorry, Percy, could you repeat that?” 

He was sitting at the far end of the table, and he smiled, the corners of his mouth stained berry from the wine. “I was just asking how Malfoy’s firm is going. It’s been open for a couple of months now, hasn’t it? The market is tough for now. Not a lot of mergers going on from what I hear.” 

The conversation around the table had dimmed self-consciously, as if everyone were embarrassed by the fact that they were listening in. A pea tumbled off the fork, and I watched it roll, feeling Percy’s eyes on me. I opened my mouth to answer, and then closed it. I had no idea how the firm was doing; I couldn’t even remember if I had asked. 

* * *

  
You came home late that night, shutting the front door with a gentle click and pulling up short when you saw my silhouette on the couch.

“Merlin, Hermione,” you cast a _lumos_ and moved closer. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

Crookshanks unwound himself from my abdomen and butted his head against your thigh, purring. 

“I was waiting for you,” I said. 

“In the dark?” When I didn’t answer, you frowned but didn’t push. “Well here I am.” 

“There’s some leftovers from The Burrow in the fridge.” 

You murmured something I didn’t catch and walked towards the kitchen. 

“Draco,” I began, and then stopped. 

“Hermione,” you imitated my tone. I couldn’t tell if your voice was begrudgingly playful or irritated; you were staring inside the fridge, the yellow light forming a crown around your head. 

“Did you finish what you needed to get done today?”

“Yes." You pulled out the container of shepherd’s pie, frowned, and then put it back. 

“How are things at the firm? Does Theo mind that you’re working predominantly from home?”

“We’re partners, Hermione. He’s not my boss. He doesn’t tell me what I can do.” 

“I know...I was just wondering.” 

You grabbed the deli meat, tossing it onto the counter with a loaf of bread. I thought of the cold shepherd’s pie. Had you always disliked it? Or did you just want something lighter tonight?

“Have you been able to find clients?”

You _hmm_ ed. Your back was to me, and I watched your short and quick movements as you spooned mustard out of the pot. The wet sound was obscene in the low lighting. 

“And things are good, financially?”

You stilled. “What?”

“Percy mentioned that the market wasn’t great–”

“–What does bloody Percy Weasley have to do with anything–”

“–I know that it was a large investment,” I paused, anticipating your interruption, but it didn’t come. “I know that you had planned to use your trust, but then your father–”

“–Hermione,” your voice was very low. “I don’t want to talk about my father.” 

“I just wanted to make sure everything was all right,” The words rushed out, tripping over one another. “That’s all.”

You were silent for a beat before turning to face me, fingers gripping the counter behind you. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.” 

“Okay,” I nodded. “All right.” 

You went upstairs, and I watched the light from your study turn on, a trickle of gold seeping out from under the closed door. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, rooted into the couch cushions, staring at your study door like it would give me the right words. When you finally finished and left to get ready for bed, I pretended to busy myself in the kitchen, waiting until I knew for sure you’d be asleep. 

At the doorway of our bedroom, I stood for a moment, like a visitor, before padding inside and into the bathroom, the cold tiles a shock against my feet. The room smelled faintly of your body wash; your clothes were strewn in front of the shower, exactly where I knew they'd be. 

_“For someone who loves tidiness,” I picked up your sweater, let it hang from my index finger, “you’re awfully forgetful when it comes to remembering where the hamper is.”_

_You turned, fingers hovering over the waistband of your trousers. Then you smirked and pulled at the zipper. The slow drag of it made my ears burn, and I looked away, studying the bottles of lotions and aftershave on the counter._

_“For someone who hates finding my discarded clothes,” there was the soft thump of fabric hitting tiles, and I looked over instinctively, “you are awfully interested in watching me take them off.”_

I picked up your polo, fisting the collar in my hands. Glancing at the door, I froze, wondering what I would do if you woke up and saw me standing there. What would you think? The rigid rows of cotton blurred in my vision as I closed my eyes and buried my nose in the shirt, inhaling around the bunched fabric. There was nothing, just the familiar scent of your cologne: tobacco, citrus, and cedar. Not a trace of perfume. 

Relieved, I bundled your clothes into a tight ball, stuffing them in the hamper. In bed, I traced a finger down your spine, skin barely skimming the surface of yours. You shifted, turning to face me, mouth slack with sleep. The moonlight made your skin appear almost phosphorescent, and I wondered what you were dreaming about. 

* * *

  
_November 12th, 2004_

The days have been bleeding together recently. I wonder if you feel the same way. A whole day can pass without interaction between us; I sometimes feel like a supporting character in my own life. 

We eat dinner together, and then diverge to our own studies. I’ve only been in yours once since the renovation, just to admire the wall-to-ceiling bookshelves you keep organized alphabetically. In the lulls between my reading, I sometimes thought about bringing you a cup of tea–two sugars, a dash of milk–but then I would think about the logistics. What would I do after you thanked me for the tea? Would I stick around, perch on the edge of your desk and ask what you were working on? Even in my imagination, I can see the slight frown on your face, the way your fingers would tighten around the quill, an unspoken _Yes, but not right now_ in your posture. 

I told Susan about this. You were late for our session, but I kept the door cracked open for you. I always believed you would show up; you hadn’t proved me wrong yet. 

Susan and I sat across from each other, like we were waiting out an impasse. I started talking so she would stop studying me, and then I couldn’t take the words back. 

“Hermione, you mentioned that you sometimes feel like a ‘supporting character’ in your life. Where do you feel that comes from?” She was wearing a jade green dress, some sort of silky black insert placed where the V of her neckline dipped too low. 

“I’m not sure,” I said. She clutched her quill in a way that made me nervous. “Sometimes I just feel like things are happening at me instead of to me.” 

“That’s an interesting statement,” she leaned forward and her glossy black hair followed. “And do you feel that way in your marriage as well?” 

“Pardon?”

“Do you ever feel like a ‘supporting character’ in your marriage’?” She said the phrase so crisply, her inflection precise and clean. 

“I–Draco isn’t selfish. Really, he’s not.”

“I never said he was.” She tilted her head. “Why do you think I was making that implication?” 

“Because,” I felt like an insect under a microscope, turned on my back with my legs jerking against the bright light, “the implication is that he’s the lead then, sucking all of the attention away, drawing all the focus. But it’s not like that, and I don’t want you to think that.” 

“Why don’t you want me to think that?”

“Because,” I looked up, incredulous, “What kind of question is that? This conversation makes it sound like it’s his fault that we’re here, and it’s not.” 

“Are you saying you think it’s your fault?”

“I’m saying that marriage is like an equation,” she _hmm_ ed at that, and I ignored her, “you need the right elements to find equilibrium, and I’m the one who went and introduced a new variable,” I closed my eyes. “Now that equation is unstable, and we’re here to try to fix that.” 

“The variable you’re referencing,” her voice had grown gentle and conciliatory, “that would be your parents, correct?”

I was silent, and she continued, “And you think Draco hasn’t changed at all? That the other parts of this ‘equation’ are stagnant? Do you think your parents are the only new variable?”

“Yes,” I said, then, “No.” I thought about me in the bathroom, sniffing your shirt like a pervert, and my neck prickled. “I don’t know.” 

“Which part don’t you know, Hermione?”

There was a long silence. The sun suddenly dimmed, casting her face into shadows. I thought she could only be considered beautiful under certain slants of light.

“Draco isn’t selfish,” I repeated. “But he’s...impenetrable.” 

“Impenetrable?”

“I never know,” I touched the back of my neck, “what he’s thinking.”

“And has it always been like this?” 

“No, not always. Draco is a very skilled occulemens, but he rarely used it with me.” 

“When did you feel him become ‘impenetrable’?”

“Around 6 months ago, maybe. Around,” My head throbbed, that dull pain starting again behind my eyes. “the time my parents got sick.” 

She made note of that, her quill shooting across the page. 

“And were there any other significant events happening at that period?”

“Draco started his firm. He partnered with a childhood friend.” 

“How did you feel about that?”

“I was happy for him. He really is brilliant, but we both knew the ministry wouldn’t hire him.” 

“But it was a smooth transition overall?”

“There was a lot of stress. I had just gotten hired at the ministry, but I then my parents were ill and I had to take a leave of absence. Draco started working long hours.” 

“So, outside of work, how do you and Draco spend time together? What activities do you two do?”

“We...we haven’t been doing much together. He’s often very busy.” 

“With work?”

“Yes, I think…I’m not too sure. He’s leaving tomorrow for a business trip. A week in France.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

I shrugged. “Fine, I suppose. Nervous, maybe.”

“Nervous?” She prompted. When I didn’t bite, she tried again. “What do you feel nervous about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you worry that he’ll be hurt?”

I shook my head. I knew you could handle yourself.

“Do you worry about being home alone?”

I laughed outright at that, and even Susan smiled, like she knew how ridiculous it was, but then her face neutralized and she leaned in and placed her elbows flat across the desk. “Hermione, do you trust your husband?”

“I–” the words suggested themselves to me, but I couldn’t say them out loud. There were boundaries in relationships, I thought, and if you crossed one, you couldn’t ever go back; it would always just be there, a phantom marking where you had ruined something irreplaceable.

“Go on, love,” both of us turned. Your voice was coming from the door, where a sliver of light from the hallway peeked in. We watched as the door creaked open, your shadow spreading across the floor. “Answer her question.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Susan stood up, but didn’t move. Her voice sounded calm, but she was fisting the material of her skirt. “It is entirely inappropriate for you to have bee–”

“–inappropriate? I’m the one who pays you for couples’ healing to ‘facilitate communication,’ but just now I walked in on what seemed like a very secretive conversation–”

“–what your wife and I talk about is confidential–

“–confidential?” You barked out a laugh. “The door wasn’t even fully closed–

“–this disruptive and irresponsible behavior–

“–I understand that this is your home and maybe you’re just very comfortable, but really, this is subpar professional protocol, even from you–”

“Draco,” I interjected. My voice was high-pitched and panicked around the edges. “How long have you been standing there?” 

Your lips thinned, hands curling into knuckles at your thighs. “Long enough. So tell me, Hermione, what is the answer to that question? Do you trust me?” 

The world felt like it was spinning.“I–” I glanced at Susan, but she was glaring at you still. My tongue felt heavy and thick inside my mouth. 

“So what is it? Do you think I’m off cavorting with Death Eaters?”

“What? No, of course not–”

“–Off practicing dark magic? Terrorizing house elves?”

“Draco, that’s not what I thought at all.”

“Well?” You were leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Hermione,” Susan said, “you don’t have to answer that.”

“Like fuck she doesn’t!” He walked into the room, footfalls fast and furious on the hardwood floor. “Like fuck she doesn’t have to explain why she still doesn’t find me trustworthy–”

“–You cannot tell Hermione what she can or cannot feel–”

“You’re never home,” I said suddenly. Both you and Susan turned to me. “I just...you’re never home, and I don’t know where you go.” 

“I work from home. I’m always home.” 

“Last Saturday–”

“Oh for christ sake. I knew you were upset I missed the Weasley dinner.”

“There are other times too, hours where you’re gone and I just...where do you go? Where do you disappear off to?”

“I told you. I had a meeting. I had business to finish.” 

“And next week?”

“We’ve talked about this. There is a high-profile client that Theo and I are meeting. These are the things I need to do for the firm.” 

“You always say that, and I never know what it means,” I swallowed. “Or who you’re with.” 

You squinted, and then your mouth parted slightly, and you let out a short, clean laugh devoid of warmth. “That’s what this is about? That’s what you think I’m doing? Going out and fucking other women?” 

“Your language is vile.”

“Oh, now it’s vile. You didn’t used to mind when I whispered it into your ear at night. In fact, you made these little noises–”

“Draco,” I put my hand up, “ _don’t_.” 

Susan looked at a loss, and I palmed my neck to hide the burning skin. The only sound in the room was your breathing.

As you exhaled, you slid your fingers through your fringe and said, very slowly: “It has been more difficult than anticipated to start a firm without my father’s,” your voice grew sharp around the word, “support and guidance...Hermione, I am trying my very best here.” 

“Draco, I–”

“And if you honestly think that everything that’s happened–after all that I’ve given up for you–if you really think that another woman could mean anything to me,” you looked up, huffing out a sound between a chuckle and a scoff, “then you not only don’t trust me, you don’t know me.” 

My fingers were clumsy around the collar of my blouse, tugging so hard I thought the linen might rip. You studied me, head tilted to the side. “Your problem is that you only ever see what you want to see.” 

I licked my lips. I didn’t know what to say. As if sensing that, you nodded, and then with _pop_ , you disappeared. 

* * *

  
We didn’t eat dinner together. I set out a plate for you, watching the clock and listening for the sound of your steps on the stairs. But they never came; after an hour, I put the stew under a stasis charm and went upstairs, passing by your study. I could see the movement of your shadow under the door, pacing back and forth across the room.

In bed, I drew my wand through the air, sending up a river of sparkles for Crookshanks, who arched and clawed at the display. I wondered if you would come. 

When I woke up, I had tossed my wand onto your side; The sheets were cold under my forearm, the duvet neat and untouched. In the kitchen, there was a cup of tea waiting for me, a note placed next to it. _I’ll be back on Friday_ , it read, _I’ve left the floo information below._

At the very bottom, you wrote: _You can reach me, anytime._ The ink bled and trailed on the “e,” like you were going to include something else and then thought better of it. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _My chest started to hurt, that squeezing, popping feeling I get sometimes with the crack of short circuiting electricity or fireworks, when the streamers pull that specific, violent shade of red and green. The walls rippled, the room tilting until everything suddenly shuttled underwater, sounds muffled while a bzzz bzzz bzzz saturated everything._
> 
> _“They were–” I thought I was speaking, but I must have been doing that thing I sometimes do, when I start gasping around a word, the consonants bouncing between my teeth, because you were reaching for me. “It didn’t–”_
> 
> _I closed my eyes. Your lips were on the shell of my ear, breath skittering against the hairs on my temple. “Breathe, Hermione.” I felt your palm on the back of my neck, the muted pressure of it before your hand rounded the curve of my spine, pivoting up and down. I was staring at Susan’s shoes, watching how the sharp tips softened each time I squeezed my eyes shut. “You have to breathe, sweetheart.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! I'm a bit nervous about this chapter, so I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. It certainly...stretched my imagination a little bit ;) 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr [@icepower55!](https://icepower55.tumblr.com/) I'd love to hear from you all.
> 
> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [@mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [@pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool)

_November 17th, 2004_

I kept myself busy while you were gone. I researched, visited my parents, and wrote letters. On Wednesday, I went to St. Mungos. The security guard at the front desk was new and nodded to me as I made my way to the Muggle Relations department. I was sitting in the plastic chairs littering the waiting room when I felt his hand wrapped around my elbow. Someone must have called him. 

“I just want to talk to Penelope,” I said as he guided me towards the door. “You can even take my wand. I just want to–”

But the door was closing behind us already, the onlookers’ wide and curious eyes disappearing as the wood swung shut.

Later that afternoon, Harry stepped through the floo and into my study. He was wearing his auror uniform, his wand strapped to the holster on his forearm.

"Harry,” I looked down. I was still in pajamas, hunched over a textbook, desk surrounded by scattered parchment. “I didn’t know you were coming. I would have...been better prepared.” 

“It’s fine, Hermione.” His voice was even, but his shoulders were tense. “I’ll be quick. I need to speak to you about something.” 

I made to stand, but he put a hand up and walked over until he stood across from me, the desk situated like a barricade between us. 

“You went to St. Mungos again today.” It wasn’t a question. 

I said nothing, holding eye contact. His nostrils flared with each exhale. “Hermione, we talked about this. You can’t keep showing up at St. Mungos.” 

“I just wanted to speak to Penelope in person.”

“She’s asked you, many times, not to show up. Hermione,” he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, “she could press charges.” 

“For what? Trying to clarify–”

“For stalking!” His voice was so sharp Crookshanks made a disgruntled noise and stalked out of the room. He squeezed his eyes shut, touched his temple. “She showed me the letters, Hermione. Almost a hundred of them. I– how do you even have the time?” 

I looked down. “All I have is time.” 

“This isn’t the first time we’ve had a complaint from the department. I’ve made excuses for you, but I’m running out, especially after you _glamoured_ yourself to look like a healer–”

“I apologized for that.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I already apologized to them for that.” 

“That’s not the point. You’re going to get yourself banned from all government premises, or worse.” He walked closer and then crouched down so that we were eye-level. He looked so young just then: my best friend, the boy who lived. 

He took my hand in his; his palms were warm and dry. “I understand how hard it is–”

“Do you?” I snatched my hand back. My voice was low and mocking. “Go on then, Harry. Go on and tell me how hard it is.”

He was still bent over; I could see myself in the reflection of his glasses, the two growing splotches of pink on my cheeks. “Hermione–”

“Tell me you know how it feels, Harry.” I said, louder. “Tell me how you’re sorry and you wish you could fix it.”

“I don’t want to fight with you.” 

“Oh, how _kind._ How utterly thoughtful. You don’t want to fight with me, but you’ll come here and what? Are you going to arrest me? Here,” I thrust out my hands, wrists pressed together, “go ahead, detain me.” 

He rose and took a step back, fingers grazing the desk for balance. “I’m trying to help you, Hermione.” 

“Help me?” I tipped my head back, let out a short, loud laugh. “Lately, you can barely talk to me. The way you look at me, all of you, like I’m confused or broken. Or,” my voice cracked, “or crazy.” 

“Hermione,” he thrust his hand in my direction, “ _look_ at yourself right now.” His eyes lingered on my dirty and matted hair, the crumbs sprinkled on the front of my shirt. There were open books piled around around me; a black smear on the desk from where I had spilled ink and tried to mop it up using parchment. 

My ears burned; I felt nauseous with how angry I was. “Did you just come here to criticize my lifestyle choices? In that case, you’re free to leave now.” 

“Hermione,” he touched the stubble on his jaw, “I know you feel responsible for what happened, that you blame yourself. But the healers did a thorough exam; there is nothing to suggest–”

“Shut up.” I nearly shouted each syllable, voice sharp and fraught. “That doesn’t mean anything– there are numerous reasons why it wouldn’t have shown up in a simple scan.” My hands shook; I shoved them under my thighs and leaned forward. “They all just gave up! All of you just gave up. But I _can’t_ do that. I won’t.” 

He said nothing, just kept staring. 

"Harry,” I inhaled, tried to keep my voice even. “I understand how this looks, why you might not see things the way I do, but you’ve known me since I was just a kid and,” I looked past him, letting his outline blur in my periphery. “I’ve always believed in you, even when no one else did. I’ve researched for you, fought for you, hunted horcruxes with you,” my voice trembled, the light in the room streaking under the gloss of my tears, “and I would do it all over again because I’ve always trusted that you would do what you think is right." 

“Hermione,” he looked like he was going to come closer, and I jerked my head. 

“And if you can’t give me that benefit, then I need you to leave.” I bit down on my lip, shut my eyes. There was a terrible buzzing emanating from inside my skull. “Please, Harry, just leave.” 

* * *

_November 19th, 2004_

Susan’s letter came while you were away. I took it with me to the hospital, and read it over and over again against the beep of the machines. Dad was drifting in and out of sleep, but he opened one eye and pointed. “Interesting read?” he said. A latticework of veins spidered across the whites of his eyes. 

“Yes,” I said, folding the letter up. “Hilarious.” 

Susan wanted us to establish a “date night.” The words became more and more ridiculous each time I read them over. When had we stopped going on dates? When we got married, probably. We still went out to eat sometimes, but it was a means to an end, because we had forgotten groceries or were too tired to cook. 

The bottom of the letter was littered with her suggestions, from the mundane (go to dinner together) to the ridiculous (get a couple’s massages). _The only requirement_ she wrote, _is that you spend a minimum of four hours together._

Four hours was nothing. Depending on the definition, we spent 24 hours together sometimes, both of us sharing the same stale air, cloistered in our own studies on different floors. But I couldn’t remember the last time we had actively spent four hours together. 

Draco, sometimes I think that’s the worst part. Not that we lost each other, somehow, but that we didn’t see it until—or maybe I was the one who couldn’t see it. 

I put the letter on the table next to your dinner plate that night. I felt nervous doing it, asking for something I wasn’t sure you would give. You had been tired and sullen all day; I assumed it was the traveling. You hated using portkeys. _Like being splinched inside your head_. 

“I’ll make reservations for us at the Italian restaurant,” was all you said. And I let out the breath I had been holding. 

* * *

_November 20th, 2004_

I wore the dress you liked, the green silk one with the cowl neck, back barely held together by a bow. I was floo-ing Ginny for makeup tips when I heard the front door shut. You looked surprised when I came down the stairs, your eyes dropping to the swirl of material around my knees. 

“You look beautiful,” you said, pressing a kiss into my cheek. You lingered, your breath tickling the peach fuzz on my neck.

“Thank you.” I took your elbow. “You look very handsome.” 

At the restaurant, you pulled out my chair, our hands overlapping as I reached for it as well. I jerked my hand back, scratching an angry red line across the back of your hand. “Shit, sorry.” 

The maitre d' watched us with amusement.

We drank too much wine, both of us cradling our glasses, helping each other refill. Normally, I might have objected, but it blanketed the conversation, covered everything in a sheen of humor. Before our entrees came, you slid the toe of your loafers against my ankle and tilted your head to the right. We watched a little boy slurp two strings of pasta, letting the noodles dangle out of his mouths like husks to get his sister to squeal with delight. I laughed, loud and obnoxious. Things felt so close to normal I didn’t want to leave.

_“Granger.” Your mouth twisted with amusement. “You are the absolute worst kind of drunk.”_

_“I am most certainly not drunk.” I hiccupped, and then let out a lady un-ladylike snort. The woman sitting to our right gave a disapproving sniff and glare, and I rolled my eyes. “I am simply...very hydrated.”_

_“Right.” You took the beer bottle out of my hand, whacking my fingers away when I made a grab for it. “Too hydrated.”_

_“That is entirely,” the edges of my words were blurry with eagerness, “a matter of opinion. Semantics, one could say. In fact,” I reached forward, grasping your tie and tugging so that you had to lean in, “one could also say that your chances of getting me into your bed increase exponentially the more hydrated I become. So I believe that gives you some incentive, no?”_

_You snorted, but the skin beneath your collar pinkened, and I saw you glance over at our seating neighbors before grasping my hand, feathering a quick kiss over my pulse point. “I doubt that will be an issue, considering I’ll be the one who has to put you to bed.”_

After dinner, we emerged from the restaurant, cheeks flushed, silently agreeing to take the long route to the cinema. We were standing close to each other, not quite yet touching. Your hands were thrust into the pockets of your coat, and I reached for you, heartbeat thrumming against my throat, wondering if you would pull away. You pressed my hand into your pocket, the movie tickets tickling the seam where our fingers were knitted together, and I smiled to myself. My guard was down. I wasn’t expecting your question. 

“You never ask me to come with you to the hospital anymore.” You were still touching me, but your hold was looser now.

“I-I didn’t think you’d want to come.”

“I offer.” 

“I know, but–” _we offer a lot of things we don’t want._ “You seem busy.” 

“I’d like to come.” 

There was a long pause, just the sound of my heels clacking against the pavement, before I answered. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“You don’t want me to come?”

“It’s not that. It’s just…” I felt like there were ants running across my diaphragm, that prickly sensation of knowing whatever I said would be wrong. “It’s complicated.”

You laughed, short and biting. “Right. Too complicated for me. I wouldn’t want to burden the brightest witch of her age with explaining it.” 

“Don’t do this.”

You stopped walking and I stumbled, grabbing onto the edge of your sleeve. You pressed a hand to my waist to steady me, but your jaw was tense. “Don't do what? Act like a husband? Merlin, Hermione, I am trying here, but you give me nothing.” 

“That’s not fair.” The backs of my feet were sore and chapped from where they rubbed against the leather of my shoes. I shifted my weight onto one side and had to grab your sleeve again; the irritation on your face made me drop my fingers. “I’m trying here, too, Draco.” 

“Yes, trying to avoid me. Locked up in your study all night so that you don’t have to come to bed. Accusing me of adultery while you’re never home either–”

“Because I’m at the hospital.” My face felt flushed. I had the horrible thought that the clash of it against my green dress must have made me look like a ripening tomato. “Are you going to punish me for not being a doting wife while I’m trying to be a good daughter?”

“That’s not the _point_ , Hermione _.”_ You raked your fingers through your hair, the gel releasing under your roughness. “ _Fuck._ I don’t know how to talk to you anymore. I don’t know what you want or how to help you.”

“I don’t need you to help me. I just need you not to pick fights. To let me do my research and not feel guilty–”

“To leave you alone.” The streetlight carved out dark circles beneath your eyes. “You need me to leave you alone. To be married but virtually strangers.” 

“Don’t take my words and twist them–”

“Then be clear about what you want. Just say what you want.” A vein bulged against your forehead. “Unless you expect me to use legilimens every time we talk.” 

“What is the point, Draco?” My voice was nearing a shout, and a couple on a nearby bench turned towards us. “What would be the point of having you come? It is bad enough I have to go every day. Why should I make you do the same? I don’t want you to see me as I sit there every day and _watch my parents die_.” I fisted my hand against my mouth, like I could force the words back in. 

“Hermio–”

“I just wanted to have a nice dinner." I closed my eyes; The wine clotted in my stomach. "For things to be normal. I just wanted...For one night, to have things like they used to be. To pretend that my husband can still bear to look at me.” 

You flinched.

“But if that’s too difficult for us right now, maybe we should just go home.” 

Your cheek was indented on one side, like you were biting into it. You nodded. “If that’s what you want.” 

You extended your hand slightly, and I came closer, grasping your sleeve without touching you, both of us closing our eyes at the pull of magic. We landed gracelessly in our living room, and you dropped the movie tickets on the coffee table before disappearing upstairs. You didn’t look back at me once. 

* * *

_November 26th, 2004_

“How was the date night?” Susan’s fingers were folded against a mug, her pale pink nails clashing against the orange background. “What did you two do?” 

You stared at the bookshelf, eyes hooded and unblinking, like you were trying to see through the wood grain. I waited a minute, to see if you would answer; you began tapping your index finger against the arm rest.

“It was fine.” I picked at a thread on my sweater. “We went to dinner.” 

“Did you guys do anything after?” Susan smiled, steam curling against her cheeks as she took a sip of tea. “The assignment was to spend four hours together.” 

“It was a long dinner.” You barely glanced at her while you spoke. “There was a lot of wine.” 

“And what did you two talk about?” Her voice straddled the edge of amused and annoyed, like a teacher anticipating a pitfall in a lie. “For the four hours that you spent at dinner.” 

_Shut up,_ I wanted to say. _Stop talking._

“I don’t know, Susan.” You drew the syllables of her name out like taffy. “Shall we get a pensieve and we can review it all together? Perhaps afterwards we can also review the previous session, the one where you and my wife had your own secretive conversation. Does that fit into our current treatment plan?” 

Her smile faltered, and she put down the mug. “Perhaps we can start with something else today. Instead of focusing on the future, maybe we can talk about the past.” She knew not to anticipate an answer and barreled forward. “Why don’t you tell me about how you two fell in love?”

There was a long pause; Susan’s eyes drifted between us. I hated this part of the routine, the anticipation of hearing how each one of us answered. 

“–In Australia–”

“–After the war–”

“In Australia, after the war,” I clarified. “We became friends during the war, but we fell in love after.” 

She straightened, and then tried to relax her posture, attempting to hide her fascination over this part of our history, the details that hadn’t been available in the _Daily Prophet_. Her voice became more and more animated as she prodded, asking about how you and your family made the choice to defect to the Order, inquiring about how we became friends. Do you remember those first few missions together, Draco? When you could barely look at me, always loitering a few steps behind. I used to think you did it on purpose, sacrificing me to potential danger before you, but now I wonder if even then you were trying to protect me. If you recognized my blindspots before I did. 

“And you went to Australia together afterwards?

“Yes. I asked Draco if he would come with me to Australia...to find my parents.”

“Why did you ask Draco specifically?”

“He seemed like maybe he needed to get away as well, like he needed some place to go.” The words were coming out all wrong. When did I start doing this? Identifying the sentiment in my brain but somehow unable to translate it into real words? 

“She felt sorry for me.” 

“–No that’s not–”

“–Poor little Death Eater Draco ostracized from society, another pet case for the golden girl.” 

“ _Draco.”_ You were still staring at the bookshelf, hand curled into fists, tendons jump roping against your skin. “It wasn’t pity. It was–I felt the same way, like there wasn’t enough air left in England. I wanted you to come because I thought you would understand me best.” 

You seemed to relax a little. Susan’s quill flew across the page, and then: “And what happened in Australia, after you found them?”

_“They’re so angry, Draco. The way mum looked at me like, like I was a stranger.” I trailed off. “She actually called me–she said she couldn’t believe what I had done, that I had violated their minds like that.”_

_You wrapped your arms around me, tugging me so that my back was against your chest, our legs tangled together on the couch. “They’ll come around, Granger.”_

_“But that’s the thing...I don’t know if they will.” I ran my thumb around your signet ring, watching the light glint off of it. “ I thought getting their memories back would be the hardest part. I didn’t consider that maybe they wouldn’t want their old lives again...that they were happy here.”_

My chest started to hurt, that squeezing, popping feeling I get sometimes with the _crack_ of short circuiting electricity or fireworks, when the streamers pull that specific, violent shade of red and green. The walls rippled, the room tilting until everything suddenly shuttled underwater, sounds muffled while a _bzzz bzzz bzzz_ saturated everything. 

“They were–” I thought I was speaking, but I must have been doing that thing I sometimes do, when I start gasping around a word, the consonants bouncing between my teeth, because you were reaching for me. “It didn’t–”

 _“Has it ever occurred to you Hermione that your father and I have lives here? That we have friends here?” Mum’s eyes slitted into two em-dashes, her hands curled around the sleeve of a blouse she was packing. “You want us to go back now, to our_ real _lives,” she laughed, a sound so sharp I wanted to plug my fingers into my ears, “and what? Just forget these last two years? Will you do another spell, darling? Wipe it all away–”_

_“Enough, Helen.” Dad stepped into the room. His glasses looked slightly crooked, like he had shoved them on in a rush. “That’s enough.”_

_He came over, grabbing her elbow and guiding her away from the bedroom, the sound of their urgent whispering following them out. When I looked up, you were standing in the doorway, cradling a cardboard box between your elbow and hand. It was the first time I had seen you speechless._

I closed my eyes. Your lips were on the shell of my ear, breath skittering against the hairs on my temple. “Breathe, Hermione.” I felt your palm on the back of my neck, the muted pressure of it before your hand rounded the curve of my spine, pivoting up and down. I was staring at Susan’s shoes, watching how the sharp tips softened each time I squeezed my eyes shut. “You have to breathe, sweetheart.” 

What had we been calling these again? My episodes? My hiccups? They were getting better at that point, weren’t they? I was getting stronger. You came to counseling to help me with them. You didn’t say it, but I knew. For you, our marriage always took a backseat to my well-being. I wish I had seen that sooner. 

“Hermione…” Susan said. I watched her ankles move, first uncrossing and then unfolding, the pale skin creasing as she stood up and moved closer

“I think we’re done for today,” you barked, and she stilled. 

You said something else to her, something I didn’t catch, the volley of your voices, yours sharp and fast, and hers low and slow. Then your breath was warm across my cheek. “Let’s go home. How does that sound?” 

I closed my eyes, there was the feeling of being picked up, the crush of pressure around me; when I opened them we were at our doorstep, my arms wrapped loosely around your neck. 

“I can stand, I think.” 

You didn’t answer, but you also didn’t put me down. On the stairs, I wound my fingers into your jacket, worried that we’d topple, but you were steady, arms secure underneath my rib cage. You toed open the door of our bedroom and didn’t set me down until we reached the bathroom, movements cautious and gentle as you deposited me on the lip of the tub. 

“I’m going to draw you a bath.” You pulled out your wand, muttering charms so that the room filled with the scent of lavender, bubbles frothing inside the porcelain. “Are you able to undress by yourself?”

I flushed; I had been staring at you, like I was awaiting direction. “Yes.” My fingers were clumsy as I pulled my sweater over my head, unhooked the teeth of my bra. I hated that I felt this way, but there was a flush of disappointment when you didn’t turn to me, eyes focused on watching the water fill. 

You stuck your hand into the tub, swirling it to check the temperature, and then motioned for me to get in. “I’ll be in the bedroom,” you said. I was sitting so that my breasts dipped above the water; you stared at the shelf above my head. “Just call me if you need anything.” 

I wanted to reach for your arm. There were so many variations of this I could have attempted: _playful,_ tugging your arm until you toppled in; _seductive,_ kneeling and coiling myself around you; _plaintive,_ my fingers on your wrist, asking you to stay. But I was immobilized by your terse posture, the rigid line of your back. What did you see when you looked at me? Your poor, frail wife. Crying in the healer’s office. Too scattered to draw her own bath. 

I wrapped my arms around my legs, chin resting on my knee as I watched you grab a towel and lay it at the edge of the tub. You stayed there for a second, kneeling against the tile, lips pulled back like you were going to say something, but then you nodded and straightened.

“I’ll be right out there,” you pointed, and then dropped your hand. The door shut with a soft _click._ I inhaled and slid down, until my back was parallel to the bottom of the tub, water rushing everywhere.

* * *

You were sitting with your back to me when I emerged, gooseflesh puckered against my skin. I could tell from the slight ripple of your spine that you heard me, but you didn’t look over, like you wanted to give me privacy. 

I stopped in front of you; you were leaning forward, fingers curved over the mattress, head downcast. The sash on my silk robe dangled, a gap forming between my breasts, all the way down. I ran my finger down the line of your jaw, cushioning my thumb against your bottom lip, and you looked up, eyes level with my navel. There was a question in your touch as you reached towards the sash, fingers brushing across the newly shaven skin. I felt a jolt of pleasure, let out an embarrassing, breathy sigh. You smirked, but your hand was just resting on the knot, waiting. 

“Are you sure?”

I didn’t answer, pushing down on your elbow instead, until the sash slipped through your fingers; the robe pooled at my feet. 

Your breath ghosted against skin, and then your lips trailed across my abdomen, planting kisses from one hipbone to the other. Fingers spread wide, you framed my hips, indenting the skin as you pulled me close against your face. You hitched my thigh up, and I clutched your shoulder for balance.

“Oh _gods_.” Your tongue was inside me, parting my lips, tracing upwards until you tapped against the bundle of nerves that made my thoughts short-circuit. I carded my fingers through your hair, neck curved down so I could watch the movement of your head disappear between my thighs.

“Kiss me.” 

And you did. Open-mouthed and wet, fingers brushing against my clit, just above where your mouth was. 

“No, not like that.” You chuckled, the sound sending shockwaves inside me, and then you wrapped your hands around my waist, turned, and pushed me onto the bed. Your thighs bracketed my hips, weight resting on your elbows pressed against my shoulder. 

No one else has ever kissed me the way you do, Draco. Like you’re worried what will happen if you stop. Desperate: hands tugging on my hair, pulling me closer, fingers wrapping around my neck. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” you breathed. You slid your tongue along the seam of my mouth until I parted, and then nipped my lower lip until I whimpered. 

You shifted, lining yourself up and then sliding into me. Why had we ever stopped doing this? We spent so much time trying to talk; maybe we should have just _done_ more. 

We both moaned, and you buried your head into the crook of my shoulder, your breath erratic and hot against my neck while your hips rocked back and forth. I was making a sort of _ngh ngh ngh_ sound as you palmed my breast, fingers sliding over my nipple, thumbing me until I wrapped my legs around you, nails scratching down your back. 

“You’re so...” I broke off with a moan; your fingers strayed between us, rubbing in a circle, the edge of your nail skating across my clit the way I liked, the way that made me shake. 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” I bucked against your fingers. A greedy and ravenous warmth snaked up from my pelvic bone. The tendons in my thigh trembled; my chest ached as I held my breath, hips seesawing until a viscous pleasure burst inside me. 

I could tell you were close by the way your arm shook, your fingers slotted through mine and squeezing. “Come for me, Draco.” I whispered, and I shifted to watch you. Your eyes were closed, face contorted. The roots of your lashes looked glossy and slightly wet, like you were—

“Draco?” I reached for you, but you shook your head, flattened your forearms and buried your face into my neck. I thought I felt a drop of wetness land against my skin, but then you started mouthing at the skin of my pulse point again, and a burst of heat flared inside me.

You back spasmed, shoulders jerking under my palms. “I love you.” You sounded almost pained. You stayed pressed against me for a beat while we caught our breaths, bodies sticky and sated, before you pushed off, dragging a palm down your face.

“Draco,” I said again, trying to lift myself up. I wanted to say _I love you_ but the moment felt wrong, like it would be a concession. You shook your head, pressed a kiss against my temple. “You need rest.” You shifted us, tugging me back until my head hit the pillow. “Get some sleep.” 

I knew there were things we had to talk about, things I wanted to address, but your thigh was draped over mine, hand stroking an even rhythm against my back. I was so warm and so tired. “Draco,” I mumbled, eyes closing, just for a second. Your breath ruffled my hair: “Shh.” Just this once, I listened. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Where is that infamous Gryffindor bravery?” You asked, depositing the cup on the edge of my desk._
> 
> _My fingers spasmed against the open textbook. You sat on the desk, knee parallel with my chest; my mouth felt very dry from where my lips parted._
> 
> _“I don’t know,” I finally said, and your mouth pulled up, but the smile seemed sad around its edges._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [@mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [@pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool)
> 
> Also shoutout to [@blankfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blankfish/pseuds/blankfish) for providing some alpha oversight and encouraging me to get this chapter out. Catherine you are wonderful <3
> 
> And mightbewriting took one for the team and smoked a Cuban so we could flesh out the one scene (you'll see when you get there) perfectly. Thank you for your dedication! 
> 
> I love all of you.

_November 27th 2004_

I woke to your stare, index finger slotted into the helix of my curl. 

“Draco,” I said, running my tongue along the grooves of my teeth and grimacing. I tried to turn, conscious of my morning breath and hair. 

You shook your head, placed a palm on the hinge of my jaw to still me.

“We should talk abou–” 

Your pupils expanded, eroding the grey of your irises. You caught the rest of my sentence with your thumb, pushing it gently against my bottom lip. “Shh,” you leaned in and I closed my eyes. “It’s Saturday. Stop thinking so much.” 

* * *

I walked into the living room with wet hair, clad in sweatpants and one of your old quidditch jerseys. You were shirtless, feet up on the coffee table with a stack of documents in your lap. 

“Hi,” I said, the edge of the greeting tilted up in surprise. I had never seen you work here before. 

You looked up, caught the way my gaze lingered on your exposed chest and smirked. Your lips pulled up further when you noticed what I was wearing. “I thought I’d work here today. Care to join me?” 

You cleared the cushion next to you and I sat down, stiff and unsure. Should I lean into you? Was that what you had meant? Your legs were spread so that our knees almost bumped, but there was still a small chasm of space between us. I _accio-ed_ a textbook and jumped when you scooted over, fingers landing across my scalp with your forearm resting against the back of my neck. 

“Relax,” you whispered, wetting a finger against your tongue before turning a page. “Just pretend I’m not here.” 

I laughed at that, shoulders loosening with my exhale.

Draco, you should have known: that’s the last thing I would have wanted.

* * *

_December 1st 2004_

The light was on in your study. I could hear your voice, low and speckled with occasional laughter, through the slight crack in the door. The cup scorched my skin, a rivulet of darjeeling dripped onto my hand as I shifted from foot to foot. 

I cursed and then froze, worried you heard me. You had a floo call of some sort, a business associate in Majorca. 

I closed my eyes, brought my fist up against the door, where it hovered for a few seconds. Two scenarios played out for me.

In one, you smiled, gracious, and took the cup from me, signaling for me to wait as you wrapped up your call. I’d perch on your desk, our knees bumping as you leaned in and shared something about work with me.

In the other, you grimaced, embarrassed, mouthing at me as you took the tea and titled your head towards the dancing flames of the floo. “I apologize,” you would say, as I backed out of the room, “that was just my wife.” And the two of you would laugh, because wasn’t it always a punch line: the wife who popped in unwarranted and unwanted.

Exhaling, I dropped my hand and bent down, placing the teacup near the door frame. You let out another laugh, said something unintelligible, and I turned and went downstairs.

Half an hour later, a knock bounced across my study. You stood in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, two fingers pinching the handle of a teacup. 

When I didn’t say anything, you lifted a brow and came closer, the ochre liquid in the cup rippling with your movements. 

“Where is that infamous Gryffindor bravery?” You asked, depositing the cup on the edge of my desk. 

My fingers spasmed against the open textbook. You sat on the desk, knee parallel with my chest; my mouth felt very dry from where my lips parted. 

“I don’t know,” I finally said, and your mouth pulled up, but the smile seemed sad around its edges. 

* * *

_December 3rd 2004_

“How have things been the past week?” Susan tapped her fingers against the open notebook, quill curiously absent. She seemed cautious; a divot formed in the canyon between her eyebrows as she studied us. 

You had your ankle hitched against one knee, fingers dangling off the other, and you gave a shrug. “Fine.” 

“Just fine?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have added the extraneous qualifier there, but yes things have been–”

“Good,” I said and you both turned. “Things have been good. They’ve been...nice.”

You looked at me, lips twitching before you dropped your gaze to the floor. 

“So, um, I–well, thank you, Susan.” I caught your frown in my periphery, but I continued. “I–we appreciate it.”

“Oh,” Susan sat up straighter. “Well, I’m happy to hear there’s been improvement, but we still have quite a bit of work to do.”

“Oh, yes.” I shook my head. “Yes, of course–

You muttered something under your breath and the lines around Susan’s mouth deepened.

“–But I actually thought maybe,” I cleared my throat, bunching the camel hair of my sweater between my thumb and pointer finger, “maybe I could start one-on-one sessions with you, too.” 

You exhaled. I stared at the floor, watching the the halo of ceiling lights against the wood, wondering if I had said the wrong thing. As I counted the individual wood planks beneath my feet, your hand dropped into my lap, and I felt two quick pulses as your fingers curled around mine. 

“Yes,” Susan said. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Hermione.” 

* * *

_December 10th 2004_

I heard Susan’s voice in my head from our personal session, saw her primly crossed arms, the lilt of her vowels as she gently prodded me towards some type of emotional catharsis: _“If you could give yourself anything, what would you want?”_

The question had rattled between us, useless and obvious. The sheer volume of things I wanted drowned in my lungs, locked between the bars of my ribcage. I wanted to feel like myself, to not be haunted by my guilt and shame. I wanted to cure my parents. I wanted you to look at me the way you used to. I wanted _“To be able to ask for what I want.”_

You stood in front of the mirror, hands skimming down invisible creases in your suit as you prepared for a meeting. Adjacent to yours, my reflection stared back, mouth set in an uncertain line. 

“There’s a dinner at The Burrow tomorrow.”

You paused while slotting a silver cufflink through your sleeve, the engraved snake glinting in the sunlight. “You should go.” You resumed your movements. “I can get take-away or something.”

We never took anything for granted anymore, did we?

“You can come, if you want.” I licked my lips, tried again: “I’d like for you to come.” 

When I looked up, our eyes met in the mirror’s reflection. My hand fisted the duvet, its soft material wrinkling under my hold. Your smile came upon your face slowly, like it had to look both ways before revealing itself– “Okay, then I’ll come” –and I ducked my head into my shoulder to hide my too-wide grin. 

* * *

I stopped by the hospital later. Dad was asleep, his face ashen. I could see the tiny cracks in his lips every time he exhaled through his mouth. Mum looked worse, the veins in her face branched into her neck, carving her skin into sections.

Dr. Marron arrived as I was reading about deep brain stimulation in coma patients, the page messy with my inked annotations. He glanced down at the book and then up at me, his lips strained into a tight smile. 

“Hermione.” I could tell from the way he paused around my name, tongue prodding against his lower lip, that he had bad news. 

I snapped the textbook close, my thumb crushed between the thick pages. “Don’t,” I blurted out without thinking. He paused, hands thrust into the pockets of his coat, one foot in front of the other from where he stood in between the door and where I sat.

“Can it wait?” I picked at a loose edge of skin on my thumb. 

He hesitated, and I continued: “Is it urgent? Will it change the course of treatment or plan of action within the next twenty-four hours?” 

“Probably not.”

“Okay,” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ll be here tomorrow and the day after and probably the day after that too.” I let out a little laugh and looked out the window. “So let’s just wait ‘til then. Today was a good day. Let’s not ruin it.”

* * *

_December 20th, 2004_

I like your friends–I really do. I know it took some time in the beginning, but I’ve come to enjoy my time with the Slytherin crew. I like the way you are with them, how comfortable you get, the way you laugh. You probably think I don’t notice these things, but I do. I always have. 

Theo’s the only friend I don’t quite understand. The way he looks at me sometimes, like he’s waiting for me to do the wrong thing. We’re friendly, for you, but he doesn’t look at me so much as scrutinize me. I sometimes wonder if he wishes you would have married Astoria. Then you really could have been brothers-in-laws. 

I always dread the Christmas party at Nott manor. I never feel like I’m dressed right or saying the right things, and I end up huddled with Pansy and Blaise, counting the minutes until we can leave. This year, I felt nervous to even see them. How long had it been since I answered an owl? How long had it been since we’d been together? 

I wrangled my hair into an updo, put on that green gown with the sweetheart neckline and the empire waistline; the one I wore last year. You wore the dark grey suit I liked, paired with a sapphire tie, a square of light blue silk tucked into your breast pocket. 

“You look beautiful,” you said, pressing a kiss to my temple, and I thought about our last date night and how different things could be in just a month. 

The Nott Manor was Gatsby-ian in its excess. A sprawling fountain greeted guests in the circular driveway, the water charmed to stay frozen so flurries of imitation snow could blanket and build up around the icicle formations. Glowing dots–fireflies, maybe–speckled across the grounds, casting an ethereal quality to the whole night. As soon as we entered, a house elf appeared, Santa hat engulfing one floppy ear, gold name tag stuck to her elf costume.

Mipsy curtsied, a tray of champagne glasses in her left hand. “Mipsy interests Mistress and Mr. in champagne?” 

“This is inhumane,” I whispered, and you pressed a glass into my hand. “There’s twice as many house elves as last year.” A circle of cranberries bobbed merrily against the surface of the gold liquid. 

“They’re paid wages,” you said, nodding to someone across the room. A burst of raucous laughter sounded out, and I winced. “More so than last year, from what I heard.” Mipsy bowed low, the tray quavering as she straightened and scurried away.

I opened my mouth to retort as an ungodly shriek erupted from near the front hall. 

“What the everliving _fuck_ ,” Goyle shouted. A purple puff skated down the side of his head, yelping before disappearing inside his shirt 

He was standing near the towering Christmas tree; a pack of pygmies hurried across the branches, jumping onto unsuspecting victims at random intervals before scurrying back towards their home base. 

Blaise laughed, slapping the shorter man on the back. “See? I told you you’d get lucky tonight.” 

He wove through the crowd towards us, his jade green ascot acting like a tracker. He bent to press a kiss against my cheek–“Look who it is”–before stepping back and looking me over. “A vision in green. I imagine you grow more and more Slytherin each year.” 

His fingers were iced from the highball glass he carried, but when he squeezed my hand, I squeezed back, grateful for the olive branch. I never meant for all this time to disappear, but sometimes I felt like I needed the time turner again, or maybe to split myself into two: who I was and who I wanted to be. 

I admit; I enjoyed the first part of the party. Blaise twirling me around the dance floor, Pansy’s scoff at my hair, the haughty tilt of her head: “Oh, look who decided to finally show, and honestly, _what_ is on your head?” And then just an hour later, her lithe arms around my neck as she breathed martinis next to my ear: “I will murder you if you ever disappear like that again, okay?” She stepped back a bit, smoothing down the front of her dress and sniffing delicately. “Hasn’t anyone taught you how rude it is to ignore owls?”

Theo approached in the rare moment I was alone. Through the open doors of the garden, I was watching you and Blaise puff on cigars, hands slapping each other's shoulders in that way men like to show affection. I leaned down, hand wrapped around the railing of the staircase for balance as I discreetly tried to adjust my heels. When I straightened, Theo stood in front of me, grinning. 

“Hello Granger.” He always did that, called me Granger, even though he knew I hyphenated. “You look lovely.”

“Theo, hello.” 

Only a dribble of champagne remained in his flute, and he held the glass bowl between his fingers. “It’s nice to see you,” he said. He smiled, the whites of his teeth winking at me in the golden lighting. 

“Likewise.” I took a sip from my own flute, feeling the jump of champagne in my throat. “It’s a beautiful party.”

Another house elf scurried by, and he exchanged glasses in one fluid motion. “And are you enjoying the party?”

“It’s lovely. I’ve been waiting to give Daphne my congratulations on a job well done.”

“You wound me,” he drifted his palm across his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Is it so far out of the realm of possibility for me to have planned such an event?” 

I smiled, my eyes drifting past his shoulder, searching for you. 

“Tsk, tsk,” he said, leaning over slightly so that he covered my view. “Already looking for another conversation partner? That’s not very polite, Granger.” 

“Just looking for my husband.” My cheeks hurt, the muscle stiff and twitchy.

“Oh, fascinating. _Now_ you’re interested in him? Most of the time you can’t be bothered, but tonight you suddenly need him?” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, come on, Granger. Smartest witch of our age, you know what it means.” 

“Theo,” I gripped the glass stem in my hand so hard I worried it would shatter, “if you have something to say, just say it.” 

He put up his hands in mock surrender, lips pulled back and framing his teeth so I could see where his tongue peeked out between the top and bottom central incisors. When he dropped his arms, he leaned in close, mouth hovering a few inches adjacent to my ear.

“Remember Granger,” I turned my head slightly, nauseated by the scent of his musky cologne. To a passerby, this might have looked like flirting. “Just because Draco married you doesn’t mean he stopped having friends who care about him.”

He pulled back, tipped his glass towards me and winked. Daphne walked by and he slid an arm around her waist, nodding towards the dance floor. He nuzzled into her neck, and the sound of her laughter rang out as she twirled her fingers at me in a quick, bright wave before they disappeared into the throng of dancing couples. 

That’s how you found me: both hands wrapped around my glass as I leaned against the imperial staircase, mouth parted and staring at the carousel of couples circling the ballroom. 

The spice of cigars clung to your jacket, wrapping around me as you leaned in and kissed my temple. You smelled like my hands felt after a double herbology lesson, earthy and woodsy and like a scourgify wouldn't be able to get it all out.

“You smell like you’ve been rooting around a greenhouse,” I wrinkled my nose, “that’s on fire.” 

You laughed, and then seeing the look on my face, you dropped your chin, cupping my face so our eyes met. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I rubbed at my temples. “I just have a migraine.”

“I’ll grab our coats. We can go home.”

“Sure,” I put the champagne flute down, pushing the rim back against the step it rested on. “Whatever you want.” 

Outside, the replica snow ghosted over my skin, stroking the goosebumps formed along my arm. We landed in our living room with a _pop,_ and I shivered. 

You muttered a spell and fire sparked in the hearth.

“I’ll make us some tea.” You pushed down gently on my shoulder. “Do you need a potion for the migraine?”

I shook my head, laid down on the sofa and pulled my knees towards my stomach. When you came back, you set two teacups down and drew my legs onto your lap, fingers dancing over my sore heels. 

“Hermione, are you sure everything is alright?”

I watched the fire, counting the sparks that leapt off the wood, landing on the metal grate. “Do you tell Theo about our marriage?”

“Pardon?”

“All the details? Do you share with him?” My voice came out sharp, but half-muffled from where my cheek laid on the cushion. “Have you told him about these last few months? What a terrible wife I’ve been?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Theo’s your best friend.” I sat up, pulling away from you. “You obviously talk to him about us. So tell me, what exactly have you said?” 

“Nothing. Theo and I–” You shifted, pulling at the knot in your tie. “I have never called you a terrible wife. I have no idea where this is coming from.”

“Don’t lie to me, Draco.” I crossed my arms, felt goosebumps rise and kiss my fingers. “I had _quite_ the interesting conversation with him today. I know he’s never been particularly fond of me, but his vitriol was in fine form tonight.” 

Your teeth burrowed into your bottom lip. “Whatever Theo said, I’m sorry. I’ll speak to him about it.” 

“Right, you’ll talk some more; you can add in tonight’s spectacle as well.” I scoffed. A chunk of hair dislodged from my updo, and I thrust it back, a few strands coming loose from the pull of my rings. “Tell him how cold and uncaring–”

“I have never described you–

“So how do you describe me then.” My voice stabbed my throat, the stark volume of it jolted like a shock of electricity. “ Do you tell him about your poor, hysterical wife? Crying in the healer’s office? Frigid at home?”

“No. For fuck’s sake, Hermione–”

“So what is it then? What impression did you give of me–

“I said,” you shouted, but almost immediately your shoulders hunched, shrinking into yourself like a wounded animal. “I told him once that I wasn’t sure how to talk to you anymore...that I wasn’t sure you wanted me anymore.” Your voice broke at the end, the syllables crackling before you cleared your throat and looked away. 

“Draco,” I reached for you, but you pulled away. 

“Whatever Theo has said, I am genuinely sorry.” You closed your eyes, the lines around your temples deepening. The tips of your eyelashes were so white they appeared camouflaged into your pale skin. “But I’ve only said to him things I wanted to tell you.” 

I dug my nails into my palms, watching crescents form against the skin. The words felt gummy in my mouth: “He said I couldn’t be bothered with you, that I shouldn’t forget you have friends who care about you, even if I–” My chest hurt; a bruise formed at the back of my throat, the words clogged up against it “–didn’t...Draco, is that what you really think? That I don’t care anymore?” 

You looked away, and I wanted to reach out and touch you, but the space between us felt like an electric fence, the railing barbed in warning. My nose started to sting, the taste of salt water trickling into the back of my mouth. I knew I only had a few seconds before I started to cry, and I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry for earlier...but it’s not true, what Theo said. It’s not. And Draco, if that’s how you feel, I am _so_ sorry. I-” 

I broke off, and you nodded. My pathetic sniffing fractured the silence, and you curled your fingers over my knee cap.

I exhaled, counted to five in my head, blinked rapidly. “It’s just sometimes I feel like...like I’ll never be the type of wife you should have.” 

You looked at me, mouth parted, and I shook my head and continued: “When I come to these parties with you, I’m surrounded by the types of women you grew up with...It makes me wonder if you wish I were different.” 

“Hermione,” you said. “You _are_ different from the woman at that party–” 

I looked away; the bruise at the back of my throat throbbed, like you were pressing against it. 

“–But I have never wished you were anything or anyone else. Hermione–Hermione, look at me. I love you. Even though things have been hard, I love you. All I’ve wanted to do is love you the best way I can, and I don’t know if it’s enough sometimes.” 

“It is.” My voice trembled, your face blurring each time I blinked. “It is.” 

You swallowed. Your chin tilted upwards, disclosing the bob of your Adam's apple as you ran a palm down the side of your jaw. Then you exhaled and reached over, wrapping your arms around me. I fell into the crook of your arm, against your rib cage, cheek pressed into the wool of your suit. Why didn’t I say _I love you_ then? The words were there–they always were–but I just wanted to exist in that moment, your breathing synced to mine, your hands linked against my shoulder. I didn’t trust my own voice. I thought there would be more time to tell you.

But then, a few days later, the phone call came and there wasn’t. Everything fell apart all over again. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on tumblr [@icepower55!](https://icepower55.tumblr.com/) You can yell at me about this chapter there, if you want ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What a terrible thing to say. I know, but I’m trying to be honest here. I need you to know why I did what I did, why I said all those things. Why I broke the thing we’d only just started to fix._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Minor character death 
> 
> It takes a village, people. So, thankfully, I have the best village: [@mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [@pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool)

_December 27th, 2004_

My grandfather had a replica of a human heart in his study: life-like, with delicate veins–so thin and fragile–against the glass chambers.

“That’s the _aorta,_ the _superior vena cava_ ,” he’d say, tracing my fingers along the ridged surface. “Your heart has its own electrical system that coordinates its rhythm.” He’d place my hand against the bottom, where the sculpture sloped into a V. “How it beats and how frequently. All that muscle memory, coordinating to keep you alive...a bit like magic.”

He kept the heart in a glass cabinet, right next to a homemade nameplate–-Dr. Granger written in my rainbow crayon scrawl. I snuck in one day; I loved his study, all its diagrams and oddities. I had the heart in my hand, held up to the window so I could watch the sun filter through, when he walked in. Startled, I dropped it––all those veins, the chambers, shattered at my feet. 

“I broke your heart,” I said, voice pitched in alarm. Seven-year-old me fisted her gingham skirt in her hands. 

There was a flicker of a smile on his face, edged against the disappointment. “That’s alright,” he said after a beat. “Come”–he reached for my hand–“you’ll just have to help me fix this mess.”

That’s what I thought about when they showed me mum’s body. The pieces inside her, eroded into a mess I couldn’t fix. Her heart: the electricity zapped, the magic gone. 

I barely remember how it unfolded. Lying in bed with you, laughing at something you said, and then the _trill_ of my cell phone that made us both jump. No one ever called me on it. No one except the hospital had my number. 

Then there’s a swath of black in my memory: all the sounds and colors blotted out. The next image I have is the phone clattering to the ground, your hand on my wrist. Did I speak? I remember sounds, the blur of fabric as I struggled to get dressed. Your fingers grasping at my shirt and the flush of anger against my skin- _what the fuck are you doing, Draco?_

“Your shirt,” you said. “It’s not buttoned correctly.” Your fingers slotting the tiny disc through the holes, the slight shake in your hands I’m sure you didn’t want me to see. 

I apparated us to the alleyway behind the hospital; my hands fisted in your sweater so tightly I found a thread of red stitching in my nail afterwards.

Dr. Marron stood in the middle of the hospital room, alone. He had his hands clasped in front of him, body positioned right in front of mum’s bed. When he saw us, his shoulders dropped, and he looked down before meeting my eyes. I’m sorry,” he said. His sadness–how overt and obvious it appeared–made me furious. Mum’s face was pale and drawn, but if I squinted, she looked like she always did in the hospital: on pause. 

Dr. Marron spoke, the drone of his voice replacing what used to be the _thump thump thump_ of her ventilator. Did I yell? I want to say I didn’t, but I remember the pressure of your hand on my shoulder, the squeeze of fingers along my neck, a kind way of trying to help me calm down. 

Dad made these noises, this whining, hiccuping sound that hurt my ears. And I’m ashamed to say: I just wanted him to _stop._ That’s what I remember most, not the sorrow, which was there, but the fury: that I was too late, that I couldn’t fix it. 

I’d let myself slip back into something comfortable with you these last few weeks, tried to build a fortress between _us_ and _everything else_. All that time wasted, smothering myself with hope, when I could have spent it helping them. 

What a terrible thing to say. I know, but I’m trying to be honest here. I need you to know why I did what I did, why I said all those things. Why I broke the thing we’d only just started to fix. 

* * *

A woman came in and asked for mom’s organs: her pancreas, intestines, corneas.

“The viable organs,” she called them. The ones that hadn’t been eaten away, she meant. 

We left with a ziplock bag: mum’s watch and pearl earrings shifting against the clothes she had been wearing when admitted. You murmured something to Dad; I saw your hand on his shoulder, his nod as he tried to wipe the tears on his face. I couldn’t bear to look at him. 

When we finally arrived home, you tugged on my wrist, guiding me to the bathroom. It was the same sequence as in Susan’s office: I was immobilized, and you tried to take care of me. 

My skin burned with anger, and as you started to undress me, I pushed your hand away. Your jaw clenched. Not angry, resigned. 

“I’ll be outside,” you said, an echo from just a few weeks ago. “Call me if you need anything.” 

The water scalded, but I sunk into it. I stayed there, head floating above the surface, until my skin pruned, the water turning frigid around me. The bag containing her possessions sagged on the marble counter, and I wondered what mom thought about when she died.

* * *

_December 30th, 2004_

I found the anger easier than the grief. There’s a muggle poem I read once; grief arrives as a guest with a suitcase. But that’s not true. He brings a house with him; he moves you in, erasing everything you’ve built. You sleep in his bed. He makes you a stranger to your husband. He’s everywhere.

You brought me my meals in bed. You checked on me throughout the day. You slept in the guest room. Or did I banish you there? I keep saying _you did this, you did that_ so I can avoid revealing what I did: nothing. I slept. I cried. I stared at the ceiling. I wished I had a time-turner so I could go back and undo those spells, take back those potions. Leave my parents in Australia, happy. Alive. 

* * *

The light drifted through the open doors of your study. My throat hurt, raw from sobbing into the pillow. I wanted a cup of tea, and I didn’t want–didn’t know how–to ask you for one. The steps creaked under my foot, and our eyes met through the gaps between balusters. I had one hand on the railing, the other clutched to my chest. You had one end of your reading glasses perched against your lips, chewing on the tip–a nervous habit. 

Your eyes were wide and alert: _hopeful._ You opened your mouth, fingers tightening around your glasses, like you wanted to coax the words out. When they didn’t come, I stared down at my feet and kept walking. Near the bottom step, I heard the light clatter of metal dropping against wood. 

I passed by your study on my way back upstairs; you had your head in your hands, glasses splayed near the edge of the table, like you had tossed them. 

* * *

_December 31th, 2004_

The fireworks fractured against the sky, pulling that violent shade of red and green, colors bleeding into the white drapes of our bedroom. 

My head pounded, skin bristling against the miasma of sight and sound. Nausea crept against my throat, slick and desperate. I wanted so badly for you to hold me. Why did I lock the bedroom door? 

You were staying in the guest bedroom, the one right behind ours. A faulty design, we used to joke. Was that the sound of your crying or the echo of mine? 

* * *

_January 6th, 2005_

“Happy New Year, Dad.” 

“Oh, yes,” a feeding tube trailed into his nostril, the plastic taped against his cheek; the nurses said he had stopped eating. “It’s a new year.” 

I reached for his hand. His fingers looked swollen, the skin dry and rough. I wanted to say _sorry_ , but for what? For not coming sooner? For killing Mum? For all the events leading up to this? 

I felt the nurse's eyes on me when I left his room. The nurse who’s scared of me. She looked down at her clipboard when I caught her gaze, but when I saw my reflection in the elevator door, I knew what she was looking at: my untamed mountain of hair, sallow stretched skin, the purple circles under my eyes. 

I felt her eyes on me again, and my hand formed a fist in my trousers, fingers wrapped around my wand. When the elevator doors opened, I jumped. A man emerged, looking at me in quiet surprise. I passed him and pushed the button for the ground floor. As the doors closed, I made eye contact with her again; the bottom of my wand peeked out from my pocket, and I shoved it down so violently the tip bruised my thigh. 

* * *

_January 8th, 2005_

We started eating dinner together again. I thought that was progress, but silence punctured our meal; even the slurp of our soups sounded obscene. 

“How was your dad today?” You finally asked.

I stared at the specks of chicken bobbing in the soup; you had been cursing earlier in the kitchen, and its edges were burnt, charred pieces of skin flaking off.

“He stopped eating. They put in a feeding tube.” 

You had your spoon halfway to your mouth; it hovered in the air for a beat before you put it down. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t know what I expected–what I wanted–you to say, but I felt my spoon slip from my grip, the metal clanging against the porcelain bowl with such force it bounced onto the floor, smearing a blotch of golden broth between our feet. 

It was an accident. I was surprised. I didn’t mean to. Or did I? I don’t know, Draco. I was just so tired. 

* * *

_January 10th, 2005_

Dad’s still not eating. I still don’t know what to say to you. Susan wrote to us, but I didn’t have the words.

* * *

_January 15th, 2005_

Muffled voices drifted through the door of Dad’s hospital room, and I paused for a minute, straining to hear before giving up. A man sat in my chair, suitcase lounging near his feet. He wore a charcoal gray suit, and when he stood up to shake my hand, I remembered his name was David or Michael. Dad’s solicitor, the one who handled legal matters for his dental practice. 

“Hermione,” Dad croaked. “I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

“What’s going on?” 

David or Michael shuffled some papers lying on the table and Dad and him shared a nod before he gathered his suitcase and walked past me, dipping his head politely. 

“Hermione, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Why was your solicitor here?” I blinked, rooted to my spot by the door. 

“Sweetheart, sit down. We have to talk.” 

The chair was still warm from the man’s body, and my skin recoiled against it. Dad’s eyelids drooped, the edges gunked with rheum.

“I asked David to come today so I could gather and compile the documents-”

How did he even call David? That’s what I wondered. Who brought him his cell phone? How did he find the energy? Why didn’t he ask me first?

“–you’ll need. He has a folder with everything: bank accounts, investment incomes, and our will.”

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“Hermione,” he exhaled, but the air choked against itself, sputtering out in two jerky sighs. “We have to discuss end-of-life preparations.”

“No,” I stood up, clutching my bag tight against my hip. “I refuse to do that.”

“–we can’t avoid this any longer–”

“–I’m not having this conversation–”

“Hermione,” his voice rose above its usual whisper. Immediately, he dissolved into a coughing fit. When his hand dropped from his face, I froze; blood speckled the lines of his palm. As he tried to wipe it off, I jerked forward, rushing to hand him a tissue and cup of water. I steadied him as he leaned forward to drink, and his hand shook, sending a stream of water between my fingers, onto his gown.

“Hermione,” he rasped, lips shiny. “I’m granting you power of attorney.”

“What?”

He clutched the paper cup, its sides creasing so that the bottom seemed ready to collapse. “When the time comes, and I’m no longer able to make my own decisions, I need you to make them for me.” 

Chastened, I nodded. My thumb bled from where I splintered the skin.

He rubbed at his eye, leaving a splotch of red skin behind. “Sweetheart, I’m tired.”

I nodded. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about this now. I can go. Let you rest–”

“No, Hermione. I mean, I’m tired of being in pain.” 

I inhaled; all the oxygen left the room. 

“When I’m put on life support, I need you to be able to discontinue care–”

“Absolutely not. I will absolutely not–”

“I’m not _asking_ you. I’m telling you what I–”

“–Dad, how can you even ask–”

“–This is what I want. I miss your mother.”

“This is an impossible decision! I–”

“Hermione _,_ you _cannot_ _play God_.”

I lost my words, mouth shutting with such force I bit into my tongue, the metallic taste of blood seeping into my gums. His breathing stuttered and stumbled in the room between us, overpowering all other sounds. My cheeks dripped, salt mixing with the tang of blood in my mouth.

“Do you blame me?” My voice sounded foreign, sutured together by a blend of incredulity and bitterness. “For mum, for everything? Are you trying to punish me?

His face froze, mouth parted, and then it seemed to contract: the feed tube jostling as his nostrils shrunk and his eyebrows knitted together. “Sweetheart, _no_ –”

“I can’t play God because I already tried once, with your memories, and look what happened.” I swept my arm out, and let out a low laugh. “Look what I did.”

“That’s not what I meant–”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but what you’re aski–”

“You didn’t let me finish-”

“If you’re angry, I understand, but please, _please_ ,” my voice cracked, deflating from the high ground on which it teetered, “don’t make me do that.” 

“Sweetheart,” he patted the mattress; his fingers twitched against the bedsheets. “Come here.”

When I didn’t move, he inched his head sideways, beckoning me forward. I sat on the edge of his bed, trying to make myself as small as possible, and he tugged at my blouse– grip feeble, the fabric already slipping through his fingers–until I laid down, careful not to disturb the wires spidering off of him, woven around his torso and arms like arteries. 

He ran a hand through my hair; his nails were so long they scraped against my scalp, catching in the strands. I winced, pressing my face into his shoulder. 

“What happened in Australia was difficult–”

I let out a sob, burying my face into the scratchy fabric of his hospital gown. His other hand arched around my shoulder, palm squeezing my upper arms.

“–but Hermione there is no universe, no life, that your mother and I would want where you couldn’t be our daughter.” 

He pulled away slightly, nudging my shoulder until I looked up at him. “Do you hear me, Hermione? There is no world in which I’d want to forget my beautiful, brave, _brilliant_ daughter.” 

“Mum was so angry,” I babbled; I could feel snot dripping onto my chin. “She didn’t even want to speak to me for so long–”

“Shhh,” he pushed back a few curls stuck against my cheek. “It doesn’t matter now. You have to forgive yourself, sweetheart...and you have to let go.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to let you go.” 

“I know.” I clutched the front of his gown, like holding it could keep him there longer; his voice was whisper soft: “But you have to try.” 

My body curved into a question mark, knees pulled up and spine rounded, shoulders shaking with my sobs. He murmured something, too low for me to hear, and I closed my eyes, just for a beat. The next time I opened them, I was staring at Dr. Marron’s bright blue ones.

“Hermione,” Dr. Marron said, touching my shoulder gently. I could tell from the rhythm of Dad’s chest against my shoulder that he was still asleep. “It’s time to wake up.” 

* * *

Harry’s voice bounced around in my head, his disapproval slamming into my skull as I scanned the entrance of St. Mungos. Penelope had once mentioned she enjoyed walking home. I hoped that was still true. 

I caught a glimmer of blonde hair before she emerged, adjusting the strap of her crossbody bag as she turned onto the street. Right before the intersection, I grasped her elbow, and she swung around, hand fisted in the pocket of her wool coat. 

Her eyes widened. “Hermione,” she said. Her shoulders slackened for a beat before tensing again. “What are you doing here? Are you following me?”

“I really need to speak with you.”

“I have nothing further to say to you. I already said everything that needs to be addressed in my letters.” 

She turned to leave, and my arm shot out. She flinched back, an almost imperceptible twitch in the muscles of her neck. It struck me for the first time that maybe I frightened her. 

She tried to edge back again, and a frisson of panic shot through me. “Mum’s dead,” I burst out. 

She froze; her profile faced me, chest rising on a sharp inhale. A beat passed, and she said, voice low. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” 

“I don’t need you to be sorry,” I snapped. Immediately, her lips thinned, and I exhaled, dropping my arm. “I’m sorry… I just–I really need your help.”

“Hermione, we’ve talked about this. There is nothing to suggest that the disease is of a magical origin–”

“That just _can’t_ be true… I am _begging_ you.” My voice cracked, and her eyes flicked downwards. “If you just give me something–anything– I will leave, and I promise I will never bother you again.” 

A car horn sounded behind us, the driver flipping up one lone finger at a jaywalker before swerving to the right. Penelope opened her mouth once, and then closed it, twisting the material of her gloves between her hands. 

“Please,” I repeated. “Anything.” 

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and low; embarrassed, almost. “There’s a wizard who applied for a grant with us, a few months ago. He”–she licked her lips, looked up–“he wanted to research the effect of magic on muggles. In particular, he was interested in seeing if magic could be used to cure diseases they haven’t been able to eradicate: cancer, dementia, autoimmune disorders,” she pronounced the words fluently, and I remembered she was muggleborn too. “He called it revolutionary. A bit of medical magic for the muggles, so to speak.” Her inflection changed, the corners of her mouth dragging down. “But in order to do that, he needed muggles to _experiment_ on. He had this idea for a potion, but he needed to test it out–” she broke off. 

“What happened?” My heart beat a quick staccato rhythm against my breastbone. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” 

“Because,” she gave me an incredulous look, “the whole experiment was _inhumane_. To flood muggle patients with magic to see the _potential_ curative–” Her jaw snapped shut.

Something sour crawled up my esophagus, coiling around my next words. “That’s what you’ve been thinking the whole time, isn’t it? How _inhumane_ using magic on muggles is.” 

She looked away. When she opened her mouth again, her tone was softer. “Hermione, I am genuinely very sorry for your loss, and I wish I could help you–”

“Do you know what the muggle doctors call my parent’s case?” My voice lurched up, the syllables split with tension. “Unusual. Unique. Interesting.” Magic crackled at my fingertips, and I shoved my hands into my coat pocket. “No one can figure out what is wrong with them. _Please_ , Penelope. I am asking you for a _thread.”_

The wind blew a curtain of blonde hair into her face, hiding her expression. My chest tightened; the dull roar in my ears grew louder the longer she stayed silent. Finally, she reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of parchment. As she handed it to me, I saw her mutter something under her breath, felt the spark of wandless magic curl around the parchment. “I believe he’s doing research at a muggle university now.” 

The light turned green. While I stared at the missive clutched in my palm, she spun around and hurried across the street. 

* * *

At home, I unfurled the note, imprinting the name into my memory: Cardric Heatherstone. I could feel the pull of the parchment in my study as we ate dinner. It beat, like a human heart, calling to me. 

You stared at me throughout the meal; at one point, I looked up to see your eyebrows furrowed, knife hovering above your cut of steak. You were staring at my hands, fingers so jerky the utensils kept striking the plate.

“Do you want me to get you a potion?” 

I thought of the sweet haze of the purple liquid, the ones the healer had prescribed me to help _calm my nerves_. I didn’t like using them; they made me feel fuzzy, like all my thoughts had sunk to the bottom of an ocean. 

You waited, and I took a sip of my water. “I’m fine,” I said. I could feel the _thump thump thump_ of the letter pounding in my head. “Just tired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think. This was a very difficult chapter to write, but I'm so thankful for all the editorial guidance I got along the way. 
> 
> If it feels like we're headed to angstville...let me just say: Trust The Process. I have a lot of hope for these two; I hope you do too.
> 
> Do you have theories on what will happen? Send them to me on Tumblr, or just stop by to say hi! [@icepower55!](https://icepower55.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You stayed quiet, gaze focused on the blinkering numbers announcing each floor. “He’s just worried about you.”_
> 
> _“Me? He’s worried about me? He won’t eat, and I’m the one who he–”_
> 
> _“He’s worried about what will happen, when he’s gone.” You faltered, turning to face me, and I crossed my arms. Something sharp pierced my larynx. “He… He asked me to look after you.”_
> 
> _The edges of my vision swam, humiliation blooming inside my veins. Is that how everyone in my life saw me? As someone who needed to be taken care of?_
> 
> _“I don’t need to be looked after.” My tongue tasted of acid. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loves, so sorry this chapter is a bit late. Real life bit me in the butt. 
> 
> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [@mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [@pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool)
> 
> I have a dream writing team. Really, I do.

_January 23rd, 2005_

You wore your best Oxford to the hospital, the collar white and crisp, like you had charmed it to stay that way. Standing next to you, in my ratty old sweater and dark wash jeans, I felt like a child; that’s why I snapped at you as we left the house.

When Dad had asked to see you, I stuttered out an answer: _I’d check_ , but I hadn’t seen you in a few days. We missed each other for most of the week. You disappeared for long stretches of time that I was too tired to ask about, and I split my day between the hospital and the Ministry library.

At the threshold of his room, I faltered. You laid your hand over mine on the knob, a quick pulse of your fingers encouraging me to turn it. Inside, Dad was sitting up in bed. His face blossomed when he saw you, but I heard the pause in your step, the sharp inhale. I forgot; you hadn’t yet seen how much he’d withered.

“Draco,” he said. I tried not to wince at the way the syllables scratched my eardrums, dry and brittle. Flecks of shiny, dead skin floated on the crevices of his mouth. “It’s so good to see you.”

You shook his hand. His fingers trembled against yours, and I could tell how limp you made your own hold.

“How are you?” You shoved a hand into your pocket and shifted your weight, wincing at the groan of your stiff brogues. “I mean, how are you feeling?”

Dad coughed, and your chest froze, the tendons in your neck twitching in solidarity. “Oh, I’m alright. A bit winded, is all.”

I twisted my fingers into my sweatshirt and looked at the ceiling. I could feel your gaze, but I didn’t know what to do now. Guilt pitted in my stomach; should I have asked you to come earlier? Were there things you would have wanted to talk to him about, back when he had the breath?

“Hermione,” Dad shifted, and a flash of pale, skeletal thigh rose from the blanket. “Could you give me and Draco a few minutes?”

I stared at him. Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I bit down on my tongue, incisors sinking into the limp flesh.

“Please?” Dad coughed again, and you moved towards the pitcher of water. He took the flimsy paper cup from you, but kept eye contact with me. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Hermione,” You stood there, hand still wrapped around the pitcher. “I’ll–”

I turned and left, shutting the door with a sharp _click._

*****

You emerged not long after I’d started counting the seconds ticking away on a nearby clock. You kept your eyes downcast while opening the door. As I turned to face Dad, you wiped a hand down your face, leaving two faint blotches of pink.

“Hermione,” Dad said. His cheeks shone. I couldn’t tell if it was a refraction of light from the window. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

I felt like I was intruding, unsolicited and useless. A scream pushed against my chest, and I swallowed.

Dad sat with his back against the bed, fingers drawing idle patterns on the scratchy hospital blanket. “I love you,” I finally said. I should have stayed longer, but anger brimmed behind my molars. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nodded, fingers pausing for a half-wave. Outside in the hallway, you fell into step with me, but the words came tumbling out in the elevator.

“Are you going to tell me what you two talked about?”

You exhaled. “It was nothing.”

“Are you being serious right now? _Draco”_ –I turned to face you–”he’s my dad.”

“I know–”

“What could he possibly have said that you can’t tell me?”

You stayed quiet, gaze focused on the blinkering numbers announcing each floor. “He’s just worried about you.”

“Me? He’s worried about me? He won’t eat, and I’m the one who he–”

“He’s worried about what will happen, when he’s gone.” You faltered, turning to face me, and I crossed my arms. Something sharp pierced my larynx. “He… He asked me to look after you.”

The edges of my vision swam, humiliation blooming inside my veins. Is that how everyone in my life saw me? As someone who needed to be taken care of?

“I don’t need to be looked after.” My tongue tasted of acid. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” The elevator pinged, announcing our arrival, and I walked out before you could answer.

*******

_January 26th, 2005_

On the computer screen, Cadric’s face stared back at me, his full, bland features shimmering beneath the glare of overhead lights. Behind me, the librarian shushed two teenagers who guffawed at something on their screens. My mouse hovered over Cadric’s forehead, the little indents at his temples suggesting the beginnings of a receding hairline.

Penelope was right; he was researching at a university. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity. All those hours I’d spent barricaded in the Ministry’s library, frustrated over my lack of progress each time the librarian stopped by to chat. And all I had to do was try the muggle way.

His sullen features contrasted with the eccentricity of his bio, which described him as a “curious academic interloper” with “vested interest” in combining naturopathic and science-based medicine. It listed his lab address right there. Once I found his name, everything else fell into place.

*****

_January 27th, 2005_

I was standing by the lab door, staring at the row of brightly-colored liquids visible through the window, when I heard the _clacking_ of approaching steps. ~~~~

“Can I help you, Miss?”

He looked older in person, forehead gleaming under a mild widow’s peak. He had his wrapped around the barrel of a silver travel mug. With every step he took, the glasses in his shirt pocket wobbled, precariously close to falling out.

“Penelope sent me. Clearwater.” I cleared my throat, walked a step closer. When he didn’t respond, I continued. “She...she told me about the grant you applied for. She said you might be able to help me…” I lowered my voice, “with a potential magical illness. I’m–”

“I know who you are.” His tone was bland, but his eyes narrowed. “But I’m not quite sure what you would want with me, Miss Granger. And I’m not sure why Ms. Clearwater of all people would have sent you. As you can see, I’m no longer involved in the wizarding research community.” He touched the badge dangling around his neck.

“Right.” I never got used to being recognized: Hermione Granger, war heroine and smartest witch of her age. How had I gone from that to this? ~~~~

I looked down the hallway; two students headed towards us. The fluorescent lights made them look ghoulish, fetid with sleep deprivation as they hurried down the hall. “Could we maybe discuss inside?”

He hesitated, and the lines in his forehead deepened. The voices of the students rose, tripping over each other in their frenzy, and Cadric exhaled and moved past me, unlocking the door.

Inside, the air pulsed with chemicals. He sat behind a metal table in the corner and then gestured self-consciously at the phalanx of tables. “Sorry, there’s not many places to sit.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind standing.” I leaned against a desk, the cold metal biting into my back. “I don’t want to keep you long.”

“I’m struggling to understand why Penelope Clearwater sent you here. She is…not my biggest supporter.”

“I wouldn’t call her my biggest supporter either.”

He fiddled with his glasses, the corners of his mouth twitching into a wan smile.

“She mentioned that you might be able to help me. You were researching the effects of magic on muggles, right? To see if you could find a cure for muggle diseases?”

Clearing his throat, he began tapping out a quick beat against the table. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about or what Penelope told you, but magic is in no way involved in my current research.” The _taptaptaptap_ cut out and he studied me. “How did you even find me?”

“Cadric, please. My parents...they–” I swallowed; the back of my neck prickled as my voice cracked. “I obliviated them during the war, so they would forget me, but I had trouble reversing the spell. I had to try a lot of different...magical methods.”

He leaned his elbows against the table, mouth opening, and I rushed to finish. “I thought they were fine, but then small things started happening. Mom would get these”–I gestured towards my head–”migraines. Just awful ones. And then they both started just forgetting things. Dates, names, little events. Until it just...ravaged them.” I stepped back, steadying myself on the cold surface of a desk.

“And you think their illnesses were due to the effects of your magic?”

I nodded, watching the haze of overhead lights blur against the linoleum. Penelope’s letters unfolded in my mind: _insufficient evidence to suggest a magical malady, unusual timing from exposure to symptom onset, lack of resources and care to treat non-magical maladies._ She had sounded so _sure_ , so certain. But she hadn’t seen mum’s body: desiccated, pillaged. The damage couldn’t have been organic.

“St. Mungos wouldn’t admit them because they didn’t believe it was a magically induced disease. Penelope said a muggle hospital would be better equipped to handle their care, but none of the muggle doctors could figure it out...” It felt suddenly hard to breathe, and I slid my hand under my turtleneck, fingers curving into my neck so the serrated edges of my nails studded skin. “Mum died.”

“Miss. Granger, I’m very sorry for your loss, but I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

“My father’s still alive, but...I’m running out of time.” I moved closer, until my fingers skimmed the edge of his desk. “You must know something. I just need a _thread_ of information to go on. A new lead–anything.”

He looked away, gaze darting to the far left of the room. “I’m no longer concentrating on that area of research.”

“I know your grant was denied.” My voice sped up, and he grimaced. “But maybe I could _help_ you. If you let me know what you found, maybe we could work together. I–I’m not interested in any of the prestige or renown. I just want to help my father.”

“I’m sorry, but again, I can’t help you, and I”–he looked behind me, at the clock–”actually have a few students coming in–”

He stood, coming around the table, and I grabbed his arm before he reached the door. “Is it money? My husband and I–”

“Ms. Granger, please remove your arm–”

“What do you want? Whatever it is, I’m sure we can find a compromise. I’m just asking to see your notes, to see if there’s some connection I can help make.”

He tried to pull back, but my grip tightened. The muscles in his forearm were taut as he met my eyes, brows pulled together. “Why do you think I never applied for another grant? There are other hospitals in the world. How do you think I ended up here, at a muggle university?”

I dropped my hold, and he straightened, brushing himself off. “Exactly. The research would have been a dead end. I realized that not long after my grant was denied, and now I’m pursuing other options. Are you satisfied now?” He reached for the door handle. “As I’ve been saying, I can’t help–”

And then he dropped forward, mouth rounded in surprise. I lunged, catching him around the torso before he slammed onto the ground. I could feel the _petrificius totalus_ branding my tongue. My wand trembled in my palm, base slick with sweat. I dropped it, watching it clatter and roll underneath his desk. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to even my breaths and tamp down the nausea.

“I’m sorry, Cadric.” I said, steadying his head with one hand as I tugged him onto the chair. His neck felt damp underneath my hands, sweat beading onto my fingers. “I’m so sorry, but I just don’t believe that’s true.”

*******

Cadric’s eyes followed me as I hurried around the room, pulling out drawers and rifling through his desk. A hefty accordion folder sat buried behind a stack of textbooks, charmed into camouflage with a “notice-me-not.” I would have missed it if not for the way his eyes bugged when my fingers brushed against the wooden bookshelf.

I made copies of all the documents, felt the burn of his gaze on me. As I straightened the papers, my fingers started to shake. “I’m not going to hurt you, Cadric.” I stared at his shoes, counting the watermarks covering the leather. Dread crawled through my veins, settling against my skin. When I looked up, his pupils were dilated and cavernous, like gaping black holes, boring into me. _What would I do now?_

“I–I’m going to let you go, Cadric. Okay?” I moved towards him slowly, hands held aloft in surrender, like he was a wild animal I didn’t want to frighten. “But I need you to stay calm when I do. I…I really need this.” I stood in front of him, raising my wand until the tip pointed parallel to his forehead. His eyes tracked the movement of my hand. I could almost taste the counter-spell; it lingered on my tongue, waiting to burst. But as I stared at him, felt the rage and accusation in his stare, my throat seized. I whispered _Obliviate_ instead _._

Tendrils of green streamed out, grazing the tips of his ears and wrapping around his head. His eyes darted wildly around and then froze on my face. I watched the spark of realization shimmer and melt, leaving a familiar glossy and unfocused blankness behind.

“I’m so sorry, Cadric,” I whispered. I hadn’t planned this part, but the way he _looked_ at me, the fury in his eyes. I knew he would never let me leave; I couldn’t risk it.

I pressed my forehead against the cold metal of the door, sweat spotting along my neck. “I promise you, as soon as I find what I need, I’ll come back and reverse the spell.” Then, I turned and arched my wand through the air, reanimating him from the binding curse and disappearing through the door before feet hit the ground.

I waited in the hallway until he emerged, dazed but otherwise fine. He gave me a light smile as he walked by, rubbing the back of his neck. I touched the smooth surface of the documents stuffed into my bag, and as he rounded the corner and disappeared, I exhaled, sagging against the brick wall.

That night, I began trawling through years and years of his research, notes that painstakingly described every path, every dead end he took. It put our work in Australia to shame.

He had a potion in development. That’s why he was at the muggle university, to use their labs. He needed one last ingredient: _Astragalus remedium._ A rare plant found in Patagonia, rumored to be a powerful purifying agent.

Sandwiched in between his notes was an itinerary for South America, a _research trip_ he planned to lead for the department. It was perfect, actually, the whole set up. He integrated himself into the muggle community, and in turn, he had a willing group of helpers, and, eventually, test subjects.

I could understand that, at least, the lengths he was willing to go to get what he needed.

*******

_January 30th, 2005_

I swear to you, I wouldn’t have pursued it further if I didn’t really think it would work. But the more I researched, the more feasible the idea became. The final recommendation seemed plausible: create a potion that _partnered_ with the body, targeting the immune system to create a tailored approach for fighting chronic afflictions. It didn’t need to be a panacea; it only needed to rewire and stimulate a person’s existing defenses.

I had spent the afternoon packing, charming the inside of a duffel bag to fit all the necessities, tucking my notes and shrunken map carefully into a waterproofed envelope that I wedged between two sweaters, one of them yours. At one point, I had thought about leaving you a letter instead; I never presumed I had the capacity to be brave around you anymore.

I was already waiting at the table when you came downstairs for dinner, takeout boxes fanned out in front of me: Greek, your favorite.

“How was your day?”

You paused to wipe your lips and swallow. You seemed surprised at my question, or maybe you were just surprised I was talking at all.

“It was fine, busy.” You took a sip of wine. “How was yours?”

“It was good. I’ve, um, had research breakthrough, of sorts.”

“What kind of research?”

“For my father.” You froze, plastic knife poised over the chicken breast. “I think I found a way to help him.”

“Is this something you’ve been working on with his healers?” Your tone was cautious as you resumed cutting into the meat, but your knife dragged slowly, carefully, not fully committed to the act.

“Not exactly. Penelope actually introduced me to a researcher who has been looking into a potion that might help Dad.”

“You saw Penelope this week? I–didn’t she ask you…”

I flushed. “It was different, this time.” Straightening, I pushed my toes into the ground and leaned forward. “Anyways, the point is, I think I figured out a way to help Dad, but there’s an ingredient missing. I need to go South America–

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Draco”–I put down the fork and knife–”I need you to just listen to me, okay? I need you to just listen to me and let me finish.”

Your lips parted and then leveled, the lines at the edge of your mouth deepening before you nodded.

“Cadric Heatherstone is a researcher who’s been working on a potion that could potentially help Dad. There’s an ingredient missing, and it’s a plant located somewhere in the Patagonian forest. I don’t have time to explain all of it, but it’s a brilliant idea.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I need to leave tomorrow to find it. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

Your jaw tensed, muscles rippling before they fell lax and you turned to me. You took a sip of wine; the red gleamed on your lips like blood. “Have you lost your mind, Hermione?”

Momentarily dumbfounded, I exhaled: “What?”

“No, really”–You scooted back and placed your elbows on the table–“how do you envision this _mission_ of yours going. How do you propose you’ll find it? Will you just wander all around Patagonia, digging through the jungle–”

“Do _not_ condescend to me like that. I’ve done my research on it–”

“Oh! _Oh_.” You laughed, sharp and mocking. “Of course. I wouldn’t assume anything less. But let’s say you get this plant. Then what? You make the potion? You somehow mix it into the feeding tube? What next?”

“I don’t care how I administer it. All that matter is that it helps him–”

“And that’s the whole bloody _point._ How do you _know_ this will help?” You shut your eyes; a vein pulsed against your temple. “Hermione, do you really think this is the best way you can help your father right now?”

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me how to help my father.”

“Then _think_ a little more. Hermione”–the knife splintered in your grip–”I am trying _so hard_ right now to give you space and to understand how to help you. And now you want to drop everything and run to South America?” You opened your fist, and two jagged pieces of plastic dropped onto the plate, split clean down the middle. “ _Merlin_ , Hermione. You’re the smartest witch of our age and you’re going to go across the bloody world just to check out a stranger’s theory? Be fucking _logical_. ”

I froze, every cell in my body congealing with fury. “Be _logical_? We are out of _options_. I am being as logical as I can be in an absolutely illogical, insane situation.” I slapped my hand down on the table, and your face contorted with shock. “Do you think anything in our lives has been logical? We fought in a fucking _war_ , Draco. When we were just _children_. I killed my mum.” Salt stung my sinuses, and I dug my nails into my palm, focusing on the sting and blinking rapidly until I could speak again. “Does any of that sound logical at all? I am doing the only logical thing I can now: _fixing_ it.”

My breathing saturated the silence. You brought two fingers up to your temples, eyes squinted, like you were in pain. “Then I’ll come with you. If you really need to do this, I’ll come with–”

“Absolutely not.”

“ _What?”_

“I won’t have time to babysit you while you have temper tantrums.” Your eyes widened, but I couldn’t stop. “There are more important things for me to focus on right now.”

“Right, because everything is more important than our marriage.”

“Don’t make me choose between you and my dad, Draco.” I got up, slamming the chair against the table. “I’m not asking for your permission. I’m already packed, and I’m leaving tomorrow.” Shock ruptured across your face, and I gripped the back of the chair, steeling myself. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else to say.”

*******

I felt the bed dip before I opened my eyes. I didn’t even look over, just stared up at the ceiling and counted your breaths. The vestiges of anger drew me into the bed, gnarling my fingers into the duvet, but I knew if you spoke I would respond.

I felt the pinpricks of your gaze before your voice: “I’m sorry, Hermione.” When I didn’t respond, you exhaled. “Please. I don’t want to fight with you.”

I scoffed. “I’m _so_ glad you get to decide–”

The mattress dipped with movement, and then your hand cupped my check, gently turning my face towards you. “I’m sorry I said those things. I just–I don’t want you to go out there, alone. What if something happens?”

I swallowed; moonlight slid across the bed, illuminating the earnest expression on your face. I felt the acid of my earlier words, and shame flooded me, sweeping all the anger from my pores.“I–”

You twisted, planting a hand underneath your head as you stared at me. “Let me come with you.”

“You can’t. You have work, responsibilities.” My voice shifted, a poor attempt at levity. “Think of what Theo will say.” I smiled. You didn’t.

“He’ll figure it out–”

“Draco,” I touched your forearm, sliding my hand down to the crook of your elbow. “I need to do this. I need to fix this, by myself. It’s my mess.”

Your thumb grazed the line of my jaw. “What if you get hurt? Hermione, I promised to always take care of you.”

“You don’t need to take care of me.” I pillowed my thumb against the dip of your bottom lip. “I know I can do this, Draco. I promise I won’t get hurt.”

Leaning over, you pressed a kiss to my jaw, and then my chin, feathering tiny kisses along the path.

I drew my hand up, pushing on your shoulder, and you stilled, horrified. “Sorry, I–”

I shook my head, reached for the hem of my shirt. I didn’t want to fight either. I was so tired of fighting, of remembering those terrible things I said: _Don’t make me choose between you and my dad._

I was bare underneath the fabric, and you let out a sharp exhale, trailing a finger up my ribcage, and circling my nipple until I whimpered. Slowly, you leaned over, head dipping, planting a kiss at the hollow of my clavicle as your lips crawled lower. “You’re so beautiful.”

I shifted, wrapping my thigh around your hip, and your hand moved down, kneading my flesh before it dipped underneath the lace covering my sex. “Take these off,” you whispered. A ghost of a smile pulled at your lips as I fumbled to kick off my pajama pants and knickers.

“You too.” I pushed at your waistband, helping you tug the fabric down. You pressed against me, and I scooted lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the tense valley of your abdomen. When I glanced up, you had the startled look of someone not expecting a gift. I wanted you to see how sorry I was too; I just didn’t always have the words.

I had almost forgotten your taste, the tang of salt underneath my tongue. I sketched a vein down the length of you, and you choked, fingers knotted in my hair. The first drops of salt dribbled onto my tongue.

“Stop, stop.” You pulled at my forearms. “Not like this.” Your hands slid down my back, nudging me until I hovered over you. I sank down; you tilted your head, baring your Adam’s apple, mouth rounding: “Oh, _fuck._ ”

“Just like that.” I guided your hand against my clit, watching your face as you stroked the nerves feverishly.

“So perfect,” you muttered, and then your voice dipped unintelligibly. You groaned again, low and pained, gripping my hip and turning us over. Sinking deep inside me, you hit a spot that made us both gasp.

“I love you.” You had one hand on my breast, the other curled possessively around my ribcage. “You know I do.”

You pressed your face into my neck and snapped your hips against mine. I raked my fingers down your back. The muscles there strained, and then loosened, as you let out a strangled gasp and stilled. My hands drifted through your hair, chest heaving with my breathing. Then, you nipped at my shoulder and your hands scorched down my body, driving out all coherent thought. There were words I wanted to say, but they suffocated in the burst of heat between my legs, captive to its spread; I bit the pillow and screamed, sagging into you.

You cradled me against your side. I could feel you dripping out of me, but my eyelids drooped, head nestled into the space beneath your ear.

“I would do anything to keep you safe.” Your hand tightened around my shoulder, words tickling the peach fuzz on the nape of my neck. “Anything. I promised I would always look after you.”

Indignation jolted in my chest, but I felt depleted. You draped the duvet tighter around me, and I pressed into your chest, closing my eyes and letting the world tumble into darkness.

*******

_January 31st, 2005_

Coldness greeted me in the morning. My wand had been moved to the other side of the room, alarm disabled. The bag was gone. A black leather notebook was stacked against your nightstand. _Read this_ said a note affixed to the front cover.

“Draco,” I called, voice rising in panic. The notebook dropped from my fingers, bouncing against the bed. The house was empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you hate me after this chapter, or come say hi on tumblr [@icepower55!](https://icepower55.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The silence dragged on; I wished Dr. Marron would say something. Finally, he cleared his throat, and when I looked up, he was fiddling with the folder on his desk, lining the corners up. “I don’t think you’re a horrible daughter, Hermione.” His fingers hovered above the desk, near where my hand lay. “I think you’re a young woman who’s had to make many impossible decisions.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the tardiness of this chapter. Real life has been picking up. 
> 
> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas @mightbewriting, @pargcool
> 
> I don't know what I'd do without their keen eyes. @mightbewriting, you save me from myself, always. @pargcool, you amaze me.
> 
> I was extremely lucky this time and also had @Endless_musings as a guest star beta/alpha 
> 
> And last but not least: @blankfish is an ANGEL and has listened and guided me through so many ideas. 
> 
> All of these ladies are incredible and this chapter would not exist without them. They're my writing spirit guides and the great loves of my fandom life.

_February 1st, 2005_

The witch at the portkey office stared impassively back at me. “Miss Granger-Malfoy, did you not just have a portkey to Patagonia made?”

“Yes, but that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I need another one. Expedited, please.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The earliest we can get this approved is one week.”

“But you were able to get my last portkey approved in two days.” _After I had flooed Gregory, the department head._ “I’d like to speak to Gregory Doper, please?”

She smiled wanly, revealing a smudge of vermillion lipstick between her front teeth. “I’m afraid Mr. Doper is out of office, and, as I’ve said, there’s really not much else we can do for this request.”

“You don’t understand.” A spark of panic danced along my spine. “It’s an emergency.”

She raised her eyebrows. “An emergency? If I recall correctly, that’s what you said last time too. At this point, shouldn’t you go to the auror’s office? They’re on floor five.”

“This is a matter of grave importance, and I would _appreciate_ it if you could push further into this matter.” The volume of my voice made several people in the waiting room look over.

She placed her hands on her desk, right behind a gold nameplate announcing _Katie Hopkins_ , and plastered an imitation smile on her face. “And this is a matter of procedure, so I _hope_ you can understand how my hands are tied.” 

Magic crackled from my fingertips; a green stream slammed into the glass sliding window between us. She jumped back, eyes wide, and I curled my fingers into my palm and stumbled back.

A beat of silence, and then her mouth slitted into a thin line. “Miss. Granger, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” A soft murmur floated around the room; one of the men in the waiting room stood up, as if to intervene. 

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to do that. I just–” I closed my eyes, felt hysteria crawl up my throat– “I really need to get that portkey.”

“If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call one of the aurors.” 

When I didn’t immediately move, the man walked closer. “Miss, I think you should go now.” He waited a beat and then touched my shoulder. 

I jerked back. “Do not _ever_ touch me again. Understood?”

He nodded. Katie had stood up, one hand on her wand, and the other poised over what looked like an intercom of sorts. I opened my mouth. Her fingers twitched over the dashboard. Behind me, a child whispered, “Mommy, what is that woman _doing?_ ” Swallowing, I turned and walked away.

*****

An hour after I came home, the floo burst to life, and Harry rushed through, powder dripping in a fine mist down his overcoat. 

“Hermione? Are you all right? The portkey office called me.” And then he looked around us, at the textbooks I tossed onto the floor, pages of parchment ripped into jagged pieces around me. The inkwell had fallen, and I had black shadows splattered around me, the desk lined with handprints, my wand speckled with black and tossed on the floor. All those notes, all that research. What good had it done for me?

“What happened in here? Where’s Malfoy?” 

I hadn’t wanted to tell Harry what was going on, but as soon as he appeared, the plan rushed out, syllables slurred by my distress. I omitted the bits about Penelope, about Cadric. Even then, I knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it. 

When I finished, all the color had drained from Harry’s face. He conjured a handkerchief for me out of a glove and disappeared into the other room. Ginny burst through the floo not long after. 

Cold seeped into me as soon as I realized what was happening. I rushed towards the door, but Harry held me back, arm clamped down on my elbow. 

“Hermione, Hermione, listen to me,” Harry said. “What do you think is going to happen if you rush into the ministry like this? What do you think they’ll do–”

“Let me go.” My voice rose as I tugged harder, trying to dislodge his grip. “If you’re not going to help me. I’ll just figure it out myself.”

“Hermione, please.” Harry stepped forward, blocking my path. He had both palms on my upper arms now. “If you don’t calm down, I’m going to have to take your wand.”

“ _What?_ ” I turned, throwing my weight forward, trying to break free. “What the hell are you doing, Harry?”

“I’m taking your wand now. Gin, can you grab it? Hermione–” I lunged for my wand, and he pulled me back, hands shaking slightly– “Listen to me. I want to help you, but we need a plan, okay? We need to think this through.” 

I exhaled, his words slamming into me. I didn’t know what I would do if I stormed back into the portkey office, who I would demand to speak to. How had I never anticipated this? I couldn’t think past trying to get to you. 

Harry’s hold loosened slightly. “Hermione, you can’t go back there in this state. They already called me and told me what happened. I’ll go speak to them, see what I can do.”

He was leaning forward, speaking to me in an increasingly soft tone. Ink from my fingers had transferred to his hands, and his slouch made his uniform seem too big on his body. For a moment he was the same boy I had watched jump out of Hagrid’s arms and race across the courtyard, determined to finish what he considered a duty. My best friend, the boy who lived. 

“Hermione,” he said. “We love you. Please let us help you.” 

He gave me an encouraging smile, the edges of it pulled taught with suppressed tension. I hesitated, then nodded, letting him guide me to an armchair.

“Gin? Could you grab a calming draught?”

He grabbed the potion and then kneeled in front of me, taking both my hands in his. “Hermione, you don’t have to do this alone.” 

I tried to come for you, Draco. I don’t want you to think I didn’t. I thought they were helping me get to you. I thought they cared about you as much as I do.

*****

Ginny left to “grab something” and came back with an overnight bag slung across her chest, one I suspected had been charmed to fit more than a day’s worth of clothes. Harry waited until she reappeared before heading to the Ministry, and they exchanged a look as he stood in the floo. Shame flooded me: from Harry Potter’s best friend to his burden. 

Ginny and I sat in the living room, watching dusk descend through the windows, waiting for the _whoosh_ of his return. She tried to hold my hand at one point, and I pulled away, a knee jerk reaction. I felt her stiffen beside me before she excused herself to make tea. 

In the late evening, Harry came back, hands tucked into his slacks, gaze downturned. 

“How did it go?” I clutched the throw pillow in my lap, pulling at the tassels. Sweat studded my skin, sliding down my shoulder blades and into the band of my bra. 

He sat down at the end of the couch, hand curled over his knees. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Greg Doper, to see if he can make some calls. I just need a bit more time.” 

“How much more time?” 

He hesitated; wet his lips. “I’m not sure, honestly.” And then he met my eyes. “But I promise I’ll do my best.” I believed him.

He ordered us takeout that night, Greek food from the restaurant down the street. “I’ve heard the chicken souvlaki is great–Hermione, what’s wrong? Are you not hungry?”

I shook my head, mumbling an excuse and retreating upstairs. In bed, I closed my eyes: the image of your half-eaten chicken from the night you left–the plastic knife split clean down the middle–stayed branded behind my lids. 

*****

_February 4th, 2005_

Ginny watched me everywhere I went, hands rubbing her wrist absently, gaze searching my face. I don’t know what she was worried about; it’s not like I could leave without a portkey. 

My patience wore thin with her constant, nervous energy.

The only time I had privacy was in the bathroom. Even then, I could hear the tread of Ginny’s steps beyond the door, etching her worry into the carpet. I tried to hold it together, escaping when I felt oversaturated with hysteria. When you came back, I didn’t want you to see me like that. At that point, I still thought about your safe return as a _when_ and not _if._

But sometimes the panic crept up my spine, a spiked fear lodging in my throat. Harry would return, answerless, and I’d lock myself in the bathroom, strip down and huddle in the tub, arms around my knees as cold water filled the space around me. Teeth chattering, I let myself remember your last journal entry: _I’ve loved you the best way I know how, Hermione, but I don’t think it’s enough. Maybe doing this is the only way to bring you back._

When the pressure peaked–two hands squeezing against my temples until I thought my skull would explode, splattering brain matter everywhere–I slid under the water, eyes open, watching the bubbles rise from my mouth as I mouthed your name. 

*****

_February 5th, 2005_

I was hunched over my research, trying to find a feasible cross-continent apparition route, when Harry knocked on the study door. He stayed at the threshold, crossing his arms and surveying the room.

The silence stretched; his eyes narrowed as he took in the books in front of me. 

“Has there been news from the portkey office? Were you able to get in touch with Gregory Doper? I know he’s on holiday, but–”

“Hermione, I think we should visit your father.” 

Shame stabbed me, radiating from my solar plexus; I hadn’t thought about Dad since you’d left. 

“What?” 

“If you’re really set on going to Patagonia, you should probably see him.” 

I exhaled, pressing my feet into the ground to remain steady. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll go later today.”

“How about right now? I’ll come with you.”

“Oh,” I pulled my cardigan tighter around me. Harry wore a strange expression on his face, like he had eaten something bad.“It’s okay if you’re busy. I imagine you must have cases to attend to.” I felt a flutter of nerves at the thought of him there, staring at me, watching my every move. It felt unnatural, something I had never before associated with his presence. 

“I think you should let me come.” He walked towards the floo, turning and waiting for me to move. “I took the rest of the afternoon off.” He reached for the floo powder before waiting for my answer.

*****

The antiseptic of the hospital seemed stronger than before, stinging my nostrils. I buried my face into my scarf and squinted against the fluorescent lights; my temples pulsed with exhaustion and vertigo. 

Harry kept his hand on my back, guiding me even though he hadn’t been here before. I paused outside the door to Dad’s room, fingers curled around the door knob. The deja vu made my chest ache. Less than a week ago, your hand on mine. My resentment then, how stupid I had been. 

Inside the room, Dad lay, head propped up on three pillows. Two patches of red bloomed on the tops of Dad’s cheeks, sweat beading across his forehead. “Hermione?” He blinked, and tried to sit up. I rushed towards him, easing him into a seated position as his mouth wobbled, struggling to shape words. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, Dad. It’s me.” My chest ached. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here the last few days.”

“Is that Draco?” He coughed, a deep, hacking sound slicked with phlegm, and squinted. “Did he do something different...with his hair?” 

“I–” My hand on his back trembled, and he see-sawed from the loss of stability before I gripped his shoulder, steadying him.

“Hermione.” Harry cleared his throat, and touched my elbow. I jumped. “Maybe we should get the doctor.”

“I–” The walls around us blurred, the corners liquifying as I blinked and wet my lips. “Yes. Could you go and ask for Dr. Marron?” 

Dad’s chest shook, and he turned, burying his face against his shoulder, the feeding tube rubbing against his gown. “I missed you, my darling girl.” He wet his lips. “Have you seen your mum?” 

“Dad,” I touched his forehead; heat seeped into my palm. “How do you feel?”

“A tad warm.” He smiled, and the thin cracks in his lips re-opened, oozing out blood. “Just slightly hot.” 

I sat down on the edge of his bed, smoothing down the damp wisps of hair at his temple. “Can you tell me where you are right now?” 

Snot dribbled down his nose, and I reached for a tissue. “At home, of course. And my darling daughter has come to visit.”

“And where is Mum?”

His eyebrows pulled together. “I’m not sure. Do you suppose she popped out to the store?”

“Dad,” my throat seized. He looked at me expectantly. One eyelid drooped, exacerbating the wrinkles on the left side of his face. “She–” The door creaked open.

“Miss Granger.” Dr. Marron stood in the corner, hands clasped in front of him. “Could I have a word in the hall, please?” 

“I’ll be right back, Dad.” 

Harry stood behind him, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. As I passed him, he gave my hand a quick squeeze and nodded. 

In the hall, I crossed my arms and faced Dr. Marron, voice edged with accusation. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Hermione–”

“Why didn’t anyone call me? How long has he been like this?”

“Your father spiked a fever early yesterday morning.” Dr. Marron cleared his throat. “We tried calling...but we couldn't reach you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, clutched the wooden railing on the wall. The cellphone, split in two, thrust into the back of my nightstand: broken in a fit of exasperation after our fight that night. How could I have been so stupid? 

“I’ve been–Is he..?”

“We’ve gotten his fever down slightly, but…he’s very weak.”

“He’s delirious. He’s...not making sense. Is he in pain?”

Dr. Marron exhaled. “Yes. I imagine he’s in quite a bit of pain.”

His features blurred in my vision, and I bit down on the inside of my cheek, leaving indents in the smooth flesh. “How much time does he have left?”

Dr. Marron opened his mouth, and then closed it as he pressed himself against the wall, letting two nurses wheeling a gurney pass by. Their laughter ricocheted off the walls, and a lump ossified in my throat. 

“Not much longer, I would say. If your father’s progression mirrors your mother’s, then he’ll slip into a coma in the next few days, and then–” Dr. Marron took a step closer to me. “Hermione, are you alright?”

“I don’t understand. I’ve only been gone a few days, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to–I didn’t realize how long it’s been.” 

“Hermione? Perhaps you should sit down.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I stumbled a step back. In my periphery, I watched Harry rush forward, the heavy tread of his boots echoing in my head. 

“I’m fine. I just–” The muscles in my legs melted, and I leaned over, bracing myself on my knee. 

“Hermione? Hermione, can you hear me?” His voice sounded tinny and distant, like the soundwaves had been caught underwater. 

“I–”

“Thank you, doctor, but I’ve got it from here.” Harry reached for my arm. “I’m going to take you home, okay?” 

Panic seized me, and my hands shook as I dug my nails into the sleeve of his sweater. _No_ , I wanted to say. _Dad._

“Hermione, can you walk? Here, just lean on me, okay?” Everything felt too bright. My head pounded, temples throbbing with a familiar pressure. A pair of trainers came into view and I looked up; a nurse was standing, staring at Harry. 

I was still holding onto Harry as he turned and spoke to her. They murmured, a muted volley of words too low to discern, and then Harry was guiding me out of the hospital. We passed by the nurse’s station. I gasped as we burst into the alley, crumbling against Harry as the rush of apparition thumped around me. 

We landed in the living room, Harry’s call announcing our arrival: _Gin, grab the potion, please._

*****

The calming draught wove through me, stitching me into a state of tranquility I’d forgotten existed. As soon as I felt my muscles re-solidify, I stood, pausing as vertigo engulfed me. I blinked, chasing away the black spots in my vision. Harry had his arm on my shoulder, steadying me. 

I swallowed and straightened. “I need to go back to the hospital–my dad.” 

Harry nodded, fingers dropping from the crook of my elbow. 

“Will you...come with me?” 

He nodded without hesitation, surprising me. I no longer expected anything from him.

Harry stayed with me for most of that day. Gratitude and shame coalesced inside me, pitted against my throat, stealing all the things I wanted to say to him. At night, he left, promising to come back soon with a change of clothes for me. 

The fever toyed with Dad’s body, spiking up before teasingly lowering; his body seeped overnight, leaving patches of sweat pooling underneath him. Every time I thought he had stabilized, finally fallen asleep, he would let out a guttural moan, clawing at the wires threaded across him.

Dr. Marron checked on Dad often, but the way he loitered in the room, I knew he pitied me. He lingered after evening rounds. I was looking down at my lap, but I noticed the sudden silence in the room, the cessation of his movements. When I looked up, he was staring at me. 

“There are–” Dr. Marron faltered, and I heard him walk closer, the _twang_ of his stethoscope hitting wood as he sat down next to me. “We have grief counselors at the hospital. I could recommend someone to you.” 

I thought of Susan, her lacquered nails and silk fabrics. The way her lips pursed with your retorts. Her incessant, probing questions. How much you hated our session, but went anyway, because I asked you to.

One of the last things I said to you was: _Don’t make me choose between you and my dad._

In the quiet moments when Dad stopped moaning and writhing, I sometimes stared at him and wondered what scared me most about that statement: its implications, or my answer. 

Hours past midnight, Dr. Marron found me in an empty room down the hall, head between my knees, shaking. 

“Hermione? Can you hear me?” I saw the tips of his shoes come into view, and then I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Hermione, breathe. You have to breathe, okay?” 

I looked up; Dr. Marron’s eyes were zeroed in on my face, concern pulling his eyebrows down. 

“I don’t know how to do this alone,” I sobbed. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to do. I just want him to come back.” 

*****

I don’t know what I had expected when I flooed Susan, but as the green flames licked her visage in the floo, I felt suddenly silly.

She sounded surprised, and her voice carried a weary streak, but she invited me to come early the next morning. 

I came straight from the hospital, clothes still wrinkled with deep creases from how I’d slept coiled in the chair. 

“Hermione?” She blinked, opening the door wider. “Come in. Why don’t you wait for me in the office? I’ll make us some tea.” 

Your phantom lingered everywhere: sitting in the armchair, hands clenched against the wood; standing in the doorway, staring at me like I was a stranger; leaning across the desk, barking at Susan. 

Susan drifted in with tea, handing me a cup and stifling a yawn against her shoulder. She had been gracious, accommodating this timeslot so I could make it back in time for morning rounds. Sitting down behind her desk, she pulled out a notebook and quill. “Where should we start, Hermione? It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you, hasn’t it? Should we–”

“I made a mistake.” The words tumbled out, edging into the space between us. “And Draco left, to try to fix it.” 

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

“Yes. He’s in Patagonia.”

“Sorry?” She sat up, leaning on her elbows. “I’m not following?”

“He went to find this plant I needed for a potion, to help Dad. I was supposed to go, but he went instead because–” I broke off, dread manacled my vocal cords, forcing me to clear my throat and take a sip of tea. “It doesn’t matter, but he’s gone, and I’m currently trying to bring him back. I’ve packed and prepared, but I’m waiting on the portkey.”

“Hermione,”’ Susan spoke in a gentle, hushed tone. “Do you have any friends I can call? Do you have someone staying with you?” 

Humiliation ebbed across my chest, and I had to press one hand into my thigh to keep from snapping. “Yes, I do. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because,” my voice cracked, and the cup trembled in my palm, tea sloshing across my fingers, “my dad’s gotten worse. They say he won’t have much longer, and I don’t know what to do. It feels like an impossible choice right now. I–”

Susan had put down her quill, a flicker of sympathy flaring across her face. 

“If the portkey comes in, and Dad still isn’t better, and Draco is still gone... I love my Dad, but I _need_ Draco, and I don’t know how to–If I leave and Dad”–I blinked and Susan’s face blurred into a thousand fragments of light– “passes, I will never forgive myself. But I can’t _bear_ the thought of Draco out there, alone, trying to fix my mistake.” 

“Hermione, when did you say the portkey will come?”

“I”m not sure. Harry has been trying to expedite the process, but it seems like it won’t be here until Tuesday.”

“What are you most worried about?”

“I–” I swirled the tea, watching the stray leaves at the bottom whirl. 

“Are you worried that Draco is in danger?”

“I worry….that he won’t come back.”

Susan’s brows curved in, sending a ripple of wrinkles across her forehead. “That he’ll get hurt?”

“No–I mean, yes. I always worry he’ll get hurt. But I’m also worried…” I traced the line of my collarbone. ”What if he recognizes it’s not worth it? That we’re–I’m–not worth it.”

“Why do you think that, Hermione?”

“Because it’s a foregone conclusion now. Dad will probably pass before Draco comes back. The plant will be worthless, and he’ll _resent_ me. That’s why I didn’t want him to go. If I messed up, I didn’t want to drag him down with me.” 

A long beat of silence passed. I expected to hear the frenzied scrawl of Susan’s quill across parchment, but she was still staring at me, the edges of her eyes dragged down, inscrutable. 

“Do you still have your journal? The one I assigned you and Draco to write to each other in.”

“Um, yes.” 

“Have you been writing in it?”

“Sometimes. I...there have been other things on my mind.” Vestigial shame curdled inside me; I felt like I was being reprimanded for a missed assignment. 

“That’s all right, Hermione.” She smiled, the first stretch of warmth on her face all day. “But I think it would be a good idea for you to revisit the exercise.”

“Susan, with all due respect, I think I have more pressing matters than writing through my feelings–”

“But what choices do you really have, right now? The portkey won’t come until next week, which means you’re in a waiting game right now. Hermione,” she said, her voice turning conciliatory. “I’m suggesting you use this time to write to Draco again, to tell him the things you’d want him to know now. Go back and revisit those entries, and think about what you wish you could have said to him.” 

I stayed silent, counting the hatch marks lining one of the desk legs, like a cat had clawed its way up. 

“Hermione, I imagine you’re spending a lot of time at the hospital, sitting with your father. I also imagine there are many things you’d like to say to Draco, or that you wish you would have said. I see this as a way of kill–” She cut off, smoothing a hand down her hair ponytail before restarting, “tackling two birds with one stone.” 

When I still didn’t speak, she got up and moved to the chair next to me. “Hermione,” she touched my hand, and I resisted the urge to pull away. “I’m telling you to treat this as a second chance.” 

*****

_February 7th, 2005_

In the hallway, I followed Dr. Marron mutely, peering into the rooms we passed by. Visiting hours had just begun; family members were everywhere, gift baskets and flowers buoyed in their arms. Loneliness skewered through me; Dr. Marron slowed his pace to match mine. 

His office smelled of synthetic french lavender, and I felt nausea swell as he gestured for me to sit. 

“Would you like some tea, Hermione? I keep a kettle in my office.” 

Laughter bubbled up. I shook my head, bit down on my lip to keep the sound contained. Tea, like we were friends. Like this was a social visit. 

He cleared his throat, clasping his hands together on his desk. “I’m sure this is beyond difficult for you, Hermione. I want to assure you that my team will do everything we can to make this remaining time as comfortable as possible for your father.”

“I know. That’s not why I’m here.” I swallowed, lacing my fingers together in my lap. “I need to take a trip.”

“Oh, um.” He adjusted his glasses. “I see. I–Hermione, I’m not sure how much longer your father has.”

“I know, but my husband...he left, and I need to go find him.”

Dr. Marron stayed silent, waiting for me to continue.

“You must think I’m a terrible daughter.” I looked down, pinching at a loose flap of skin on my thumb until blood oozed out. “I’m going to try to make this as fast as possible. I just–I need to find him.”

“I understand. Is there some way I can reach you, in case of emergency?”

“I’m going to leave you his lawyer’s number. I don’t know if there will be cell reception where I go. If...if anything happens, he’ll know what to do. There’s, um, no other family to call. It’s just me.” 

His pager went off, and Dr. Marron glanced down for a second before silencing it. “I’m sure the residents can handle this one.” 

His kindness sparked shame inside me. “I don’t want you to think of this as a choice, Dr. Marron.” My voice lurched up, unsteady. His face softened, the corners of his mouth pulling down. “I love my dad. Watching him like this is _unbearable_ , but I need to do what I think is right, even if it's wrong. I need to go and find Draco.” 

The silence dragged on; I wished he would say something. Finally, he cleared his throat, and when I looked up, he was fiddling with the folder on his desk, lining the corners up. “I don’t think you’re a horrible daughter, Hermione.” His fingers hovered above the desk, near where my hand lay. “I think you’re a young woman who’s had to make many impossible decisions.” 

*****

The nurse nodded at me when I walked into the room. I didn’t approach Dad’s bed until I heard the door click shut. His fever had broken, but his face looked sunken in, the skin desiccated and borderline-translucent. 

“Dad?” I reached for his hand. I could feel the veins straining against his skin, a river of green branching up his arm. “It’s me, Hermione.”

He groaned, spittle flying from his mouth, and then turned, wires tangling as he tried to curl into himself.

“Don’t, Dad. Stop–you’re going to pull out one of the IVs.” 

I gripped his shoulders, careful to keep my touch light, and he batted at me, long fingernails scratching the back of my palm. 

“Dad, _please._ ” I was leaning over him, palms wrapped around his forearms, and he blinked at me. “‘Mione?”

“Yes, it’s me.” Salt crawled up my throat, and I bit down on my lip, pulling a chair up next to his bedside. “Dad, I need to talk to you about something.”

“All right, but we won’t have long.” He sighed, a long exhale of air that turned into a cough. Then his face contorted, left eye twitching, like he wanted to wink. “You know how your mother gets when we’re late for dinner.” 

I held his hand between my palms. “Dad, I need you to listen to me, okay? I need to go away for a bit.” 

I didn’t know if he understood what I was saying. His eyes flitted over my face before drifting behind my head. 

“I have to go take a little trip, but I’m going to try to make it back as soon as I can, okay? And I promise you, you’re not going to be alone. The doc–the people here will look after you, okay?”

His eyes were drifting shut, and I squeezed his hand gently. “Dad, I love you, okay? All I’ve ever wanted to do is keep you safe. I–” My vision trembled, lights blurring into stars, and I shut my eyes, bringing his palm up to my cheek. “I’ve done so many things wrong, but I love you so much. And if–if you’re in too much pain...and you need to go, I understand too. You don’t need to wait for me.” 

His fingers twitched between mine. I looked up, and he brought his other hand to my head, patting me. “Don’t cry, darling.” I froze; his eyes seemed bright and alert. Was he…?

“Your grandfather won’t be upset forever. It’s just a sculpture. You can use your savings from this summer to help him pay for it.” 

******

_February 8th, 2005_

I bought a plane ticket, just in case, a contingency plan. I would have lost a day or two getting into that part of the jungle. I wasn’t even sure if I could access it without a portkey, but it didn’t matter; I couldn’t keep waiting. 

I don’t know how hard Harry pushed for that portkey, if he pushed at all, even. I had braced myself for disappointment, but it still stung when we got to the portkey office and all he did was sigh and shake his head.

“I’m sure it’ll just be a little longer, Hermione.” 

I had a redeye ticket, a layover in Brazil. I would leave a note, or maybe I wouldn’t. They’d know either way. 

I felt absurd, slinking through my own home, looking over my shoulder. I wouldn’t have let Harry stop me from leaving this time, but I didn’t have the energy to fight with him either. I just needed to get to you. 

I was on the stairs when I heard you. It was a thump, like a bag of flour hitting the counter, and then the sound of your groan.

“Draco?” I dropped the duffle, sprinted down the stairs; socks pounding across wood. “Is that you?”

It took me a second to make out your outline, face down on the carpet. The moonlight cast everything into grayscale, and I rushed towards you, thinking you had just fallen.

“Draco? _Merlin_ , is that you? Are you alright?” 

I kneeled down, and you hissed when I touched your torso, attempting to sit you upright. I pulled my hand back; a black liquid covered my palms. Under my _lumos_ , it turned crimson. 

“Hermione?” Gasping, you touched my knee.

I swung my wand across; you were stained red. Blood, everywhere, snaking across the carpet, pooling around you like a Rorschach test. 

"Am I back?" You twitched, the jerk of your body sending blood onto me. 

I inhaled, and then I began to scream.

******

Hermione pauses, placing the notebook facedown on the table; her throat hurts, raw from overuse. The sun beams into the room, creeping across the white bedsheets and illuminating the pale cast to his skin. 

Moving closer to the bed, she touches his hand, careful not to disturb the IV needles threaded across his arm. The machines beside him _beeps_ a steady rhythm. She watches the dip in his throat as he breathes. Leaning over, she presses a kiss against his forehead. “Draco, please wake up.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling, guys? Let's chat...on here or Tumblr [@icepower55!](https://icepower55.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If you have any questions, please shoot me a message!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everyone plans, Miss Granger. The question is: how far would you go? What would be your limits?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, so sorry for the delay. I promise I already started chapter 9, so that should shorten the waiting game a bit. 
> 
> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool) and [Endless_musings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endless_musings/pseuds/Endless_musings/works)
> 
> These ladies are incredible; this story would not exist without their keen eye for details, plot holes, and syntax. All my love to them
> 
> Also, a huge thanks to [blankfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blankfish/pseuds/blankfish) for offering some amazing plot insight and [magical_traveler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magical_traveler) for basically curating the entire WYTiR playlist (i'll include songs below)

Hermione senses Harry before she sees him, and the awareness makes her pause, stumbling over her words as she reads to Draco. She snaps her notebook shut and looks up, thumb wedged between the pages.

“Are you ready?” Harry crosses his arms. He’s angry, but this anger is more palatable than the hard assessing look he gives her sometimes, like he’s not sure what to do with her.

“How long have you been standing there?” 

“Not long. I tried knocking.” Harry eyes the notebook. “But you didn’t answer.” 

She stands, moves to Draco’s bedside. “Someone will be here with him?” His palm is cool and dry beneath hers, devoid of its usual heat. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend this isn’t Draco, just a body. Her husband is at home: not hurt, not here. 

“Pansy’s outside. She says the Malfoys are coming soon.”

“All right.” She squeezes Draco’s hand. She wants to lean down and kiss him, but Harry stares at her, and the concentrated exposure slices into her bones.

They pass Pansy, who throws them a cursory nod. She doesn’t speak to Hermione, which is unsurprising but painful in an unexpected way.

In the hallway, she follows Harry towards the elevators. She wonders if he’ll do that thing she’s seen in muggle TV shows, handcuff her while guiding her away: an announcement of the criminal she has become. 

But he doesn’t do that. He barely looks at her. He hasn’t really met her gaze since he found out about Cadric, about what she did.

Penelope had been the one to tell him, but Hermione wonders if it would have been better had she just confessed. Would Harry be less angry? How much of his fury was entangled in her omission? 

She imagines Penelope flooing Cadric, the caution woven into her voice: _Did Hermione Granger_ _visit you?_ Shame stabs at Hermione when she thinks about Cadric’s answer, the inexplicable gaps in his memory. And then Penelope’s dawning realization, her panicked visit to Harry. 

_I have to take you in for questioning._ _Merlin, Hermione. Do you have any idea what will happen if Cadric chooses to press charges?_

“I know you’re angry with me–”

“Don’t.” She watches Harry swallow and rub at the minefield of stubble on his jaw. “I don’t want to talk right now.”

They’re waiting for the _ding_ of their escape, but the elevator doors slide open to reveal a gurney, nurses and doctors pressed against the walls. “Sorry,” a white coat says. “This one is occupado.” And then everyone laughs, and nausea creeps up Hermione’s throat as they’re left waiting for another elevator. 

She wants to try again, one last time. “Harry,” she says, tucking her fingers into her jeans. “I’m sorry, but I just–I did what I thought was right.” His silence suffocates the elevator ride and follows them to the apparition point. 

When they finally reach the entrance to the ministry, he says, very quietly: “I have no idea who you are anymore, Hermione.” 

She exhales, her breath fogging the air, like a barrier erected between them. “What would _you_ have done? If it were Ginny? If it were someone you loved? I asked you to _help_ me, Harry–”

“And what do you think I should have done? Burned down the portkey office? Used an imperius on the associate? _Merlin_ , Hermione. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

People turn, blinking at the commotion, and he pulls her into the elevator, stabbing the button for floor five. 

“I didn’t hurt him. I just–I was always going to reverse the spell.” She can feel the panic bubbling up, but her indignation edges it out. “Harry, we did much worse things during the war–”

"Don't--don't talk to me about the things we did in the war." His voice peaks right as the elevator jolts sideways, crashing her into him. He steadies her, and then immediately steps back, like she’s contagious. “Listen to yourself. Are you honestly trying to justify what you did to Cadric?”

“I’m trying to make you understand–”

“I don’t understand. I _can’t_ understand. And yes, Hermione, you’re right. I am mad. I’m furious. But, listen to me”–he finally touches her then, ushering her out of the elevator and into an empty conference room–“right now, I’m focused on getting you through the next hour, okay? Cadric is willing to drop the charges, but he’s asked to speak to you. I don’t know why, and I don’t know what he wants, but so help me, Hermione. You do not get to go to Azkaban for this. Because Ginny and I, the people who love you, the people you have left, we deserve the chance to be angry at you. And I can’t do that if you’re in Azkaban.” 

She sees Harry–this Harry–for the first time: Head Auror, department lead. 

“And what were my options?” Heat crawls up her neck, and her hands curl into fists. “Watch my father die when there might have been a way to fix it?” 

“You had options. _Legal, moral_ options. Hermione, why didn’t you come to us, your friends? You just shut us out. I could have helped you–”

The absurdity of his sentence makes her laugh. “ _Help_ me? Really? When? When you weren’t threatening to arrest me for stalking? When you were storming into my house and stealing my wand–”

“That is not how–”

“Or how about when I did ask you for help? What happened with the portkey office, Harry? Did you even–” the words feel gummy in her mouth, and her throat seizes, warning her about the permanence of her questions. He will tell her, and then she will always know this about him, the type of man he became when she needed him most. “Did you even talk to Gregory Doper? Did you even _try?_ ”

His mouth snaps shut, jumping into a thin em-dash. She watches the latticework of lines on his lips disappear, suppressing what he wants to say. 

“This isn’t the time, Hermione,” he finally says. He pulls out a chair, gestures for her to sit. “I need to prep you before you see Cadric.”

*

Cadric squints as she sits down. The fluorescent light accentuates the sparsity of his hair, making his scalp appear and disappear like a magic trick. 

He studies Hermione without a word. The metal table ices her palm, and she stares at his ragged cuticles to avoid meeting his gaze. “Hello, Cadric.”

“Miss Granger.” A plastic cup sits on the table, and he takes a sip, droplets clinging to his mustache as his throat bobs. 

“Harry mentioned you wanted to, um, speak to me.”

He laughs, disbelief coloring the sound. “Yes, you could say that.” He folds his fingers together, leans forward onto his elbows. “You’re awfully quiet for someone being investigated for criminal activity.” 

“I–”

His lips pull wide, a caricature of a smile. She understands now: this is a massacre, not a meeting. 

“Is there nothing you want to say to me, Miss Granger?”

She takes a deep breath, like she can inhale Harry’s command into her body: _Just say what you need to say. You can’t afford to have pride right now, Hermione._

“I’m sorry, Cadric.” Her tongue feels clumsy and limp inside her mouth. “I’m very sorry for what happened.”

Another laugh, this time sharper, mouth unfurling as spittle flies out. “Are you? I’m getting the impression that you really aren’t.” 

“I didn’t plan for what happened. I just–I was desperate.” The clock ticks. Her heart thuds. “I would have come back as soon as possible and restored your memories. The research was always yours–I didn’t steal it to publish or–”

“But you did, steal it. You obliviated me and stole my research for…?”

“I thought I could save my father. Fix what I had done.”

“And did you?” His face remains impassive.

“No.” She pulls at the edge of her sweater. “No, I didn’t.”

“A shame.” He steeples his fingers against his mouth. “All that planning for nothing.” 

“I didn’t plan–”

“ _Everyone_ plans, Miss Granger. The question is: how _far_ would you go? What would be your limits?”

Her cheeks flame, shoulders tensing. “And what was your grand plan, your limits? Bring your students to Patagonia and dose them with unknown, magical substances? Is that not inhumane as well?” 

He smiles then, like this is what he had been waiting for all along. “How do you define humanity, Miss Granger? One life, or potentially thousands”–he leans forward, and Hermione wants to recoil from his face, from the dark mole consuming his cheek–"millions, maybe. If my potion works, I have the chance to save millions of muggle lives. What are a few compared to that?” 

“You can’t–” She falters; she is at the edge of a precipice, feet pressed against the overhang. 

“I can’t what? Play _God_?” His eyes twinkle, like he has a secret to share. “I can’t play God, but you can?”

Panic swivels down her esophagus, curdling in her stomach. 

“It’s not so simple is it, Miss Granger?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want my research back, and I want the _Astragalus remedium_.”

“I never went.”

He raises a brow. “Was your father not in acute condition? I somehow fail to believe you would have delayed the trip” 

“My”–she licks her lips; her throat feels scorched–“husband went instead.”

“And was he able to procure the plant?” Cadric leans forward, chair screeching against tile. 

“No–”

“No?” He slams his hand on the table, all traces of amusement vanquished. “Don’t lie to me.”

Her hands shake, and she slides them underneath her thighs. “Draco wasn’t able to get the plant. He got hurt. I didn’t have a chance to ask what happened...he’s comatose.”

The cup cracks between his fingers, and the sound of splintered plastic makes her wince. “There was nothing on him?”

“No.”

“And when did they say he would wake up? I need to speak to him.”

“They don’t know...He has extensive internal injuries.” She bites down, teeth sinking into her cheek. “It was a gunshot wound.” 

“That is unfortunate.”

The quiet between her and Cadric is filled by the tread of Harry’s steps, echoing from outside. Cadric’s callousness shouldn’t surprise her; his focus lies solely with the plant. Hermione watches him press his fingers into his temple, lips flattened, body vibrating with frustration. Finally, he exhales and stands. 

“You’ll hand over the research to Auror Potter. I’ll speak to him about dropping the charges. Should your husband wake, you will contact me immediately.” He pauses on the way out; from her seated position, his ribs are parallel to her shoulder. “And let me be very clear, if I discover you’ve been lying, if he did retrieve the plant, I will not hesitate”–the sentence hangs, incomplete and foreboding–”Do you understand me?”

“Why are you dropping the charges?” 

He pauses before answering, profile facing her. “Have you heard of Frankenstein’s Monster, Hermione?” He chuckles then, turning towards her. “Are we really so different?” 

*

Back in the hospital, Hermione sits in the corner of Draco’s room. The condemnation of the room’s occupants sinks into her skin, branding her: Pansy’s stony disregard, the Malfoy’s barbed words, Blaise’s disbelief. 

“Granger.” Pansy finally looks at her, eyes lingering on Hermione’s unbrushed hair. “Would you kindly explain again why Draco is here instead of St. Mungo’s? I thought the healer’s outfits were bad, but this is sincerely obscene.” She looks out the door, frowning. “Do we honestly expect muggles wearing white dressing gowns to be able to heal Draco?”

“I must agree with Miss Parkinson on this point.” A metal serpent slithers along Lucius’ cane, its gold tail oscillating each time he speaks. “I fail to see how these”–he sneers, looking around–“resources are conducive to Draco’s recovery.” 

“Muggles doctors are more familiar with this type of injury,” Hermione says. “It’s not just the extent of Draco’s physical injuries. He has”–Hermione swallows and looks down–”lead poisoning from the bullets. He’ll need chelation therapy, maybe dialysis.” She wonders, briefly, if she should explain what these terms mean, but dread calcifies in her throat every time she tries. “Healers wouldn’t have the appropriate treatment.” 

“And please enlighten us again, Miss Granger.” Lucius drags the syllables of her maiden name out until the letters sound obscene. “How exactly did my son receive such an injury?” 

Hermione closes her eyes, nails digging into the lacquered armrest. How had she not considered this? She planned it all–packed the dittany, the imperishable food, the waterproof clothing–but she never considered what people _did_ in the jungle. Her grief blinded her.

“He was in the Patagonian jungle. They have a very robust hunting season. I believe he was accidentally shot.” 

“And could you please reiterate why my son would be in the Patagonian jungle? What exactly was his order of business there?”

“He went to find a plant, _Ast_ –”

“But _why_ did he need such a plant?” Lucius’ voice rises; his hand tightens on the cane, knuckles whitening. “Why would he make such a _foolish_ , _ridiculous_ journey? What exactly was he doing it for?”

Hermione swallows. Pansy shifts besides her, mute. Blaise looks out the window. 

“Draco went for me. In place of me.” She knows this game, what Lucius wants. She’s told everyone in this room what happened, but Lucius wants her to confess again, publicly, shamefully.

“And what happens now, Miss Granger? Smartest witch of your age. Please, do tell, what happens to my son now?”

“I don’t know.”

“And is he in pain?” Lucius stands, and Narcissa grips his sleeve, but he brushes her off.

“I don’t know.” 

“And will he wake up?” 

Her voice cracks, and she looks up, focusing on the clock above Draco’s head. 

“I don’t know.”

“So,” Lucius stops in front of her, looming over her seated form. Slowly, he lifts his cane up, placing the handle under her chin and tilting her head. Their eyes meet, and the metal digs into her throat as he studies her, nostrils flaring. “What exactly _do_ you know, Miss Granger?” 

*

Pansy is the only one left in Draco’s room when Hermione returns, holding a cup of tea in her hand, her excuse to escape Lucius. It’s grown cold from how long she loitered in the hallway, waiting for the Malfoys to leave. 

“They left to change,” Pansy says, without looking up. “The Malfoys will be back in an hour.” 

“Oh,” Hermione sits across from Draco’s bed, pretends to sip from her Earl Grey. “Have the doctors come back yet?”

“No.” Pansy crosses her ankles, leaning away. “Their incompetence remains intact.” 

They settle into a thick silence. Pansy huffs occasionally, and a small, horrible part of Hermione wishes she would leave. There are still journal entries left to read; she needs to make sure Draco understands the depth of her guilt, the sincerity of her regret. 

Reading and writing to him comforts her. Hermione knows exactly what happens in each journal entry, can identify the errors in her judgement, the things she couldn’t see then. But here, sitting in the hospital, waiting for his doctors: she has no idea what happens next. Hermione feels unmoored, useless and unwanted. The smartest witch of her age without an answer. 

It takes another half hour for the doctors to arrive, striding into the room with coats of varying length. Medical students, Hermione realizes. Indignation snakes through her body; Draco isn’t an exhibition. 

They do their introductions and begin presenting Draco’s case. The words slip past Hermione, lost to the dull roaring infiltrating her mind: _extensive abdominal trauma, hypovolemic shock, CT scans._

“What happened here?” One of them asks. Short coat, black hair, tittering with nervous energy. She points at the jagged gash–puckered red and sealed with black thread–bisecting Draco’s arm. 

_Splinched_ , Hermione wants to say. _My husband was splinched._

She counts the tiles on the floor, trying to drown out the steady timbre of voices. 

“Mrs. Malfoy?” Trainers cross into her visual field, and she looks up. Long coat, blond hair and shiny white teeth. Dr. Caulder, the doctor she had spoken to when they transferred Draco out of the emergency room. “Could you tell us how the injury happened?”

“I’m not sure,” she lies. What could she possibly say? How would she explain anything? “I found him in the entryway of our home, bleeding.”

“Have you spoken to the police?”

“I–No, not yet. I took him to the hospital as soon as I found him.”

“You didn’t call an ambulance?” 

She can sense the disbelief in the room. Sweat beads her hairline. They’ll have to be confunded, all of them. She’ll have to speak to Harry. Shame erupts, pressing against her lungs. Is this who she is now? She remembers Cadric’s smile, his voice: _What would be your limits?_ Had her magic made her play God? Or is this just her?”

Pansy’s voice cuts in. “Shouldn’t you be telling us his treatment plan?”

Distrust flickers through the chain of doctors, and Dr. Caulder adjusts his glasses before speaking. 

“The latest CT showed extensive injury to his intestines. After the bullets were removed, the levels of lead in his body did decrease, but”–he looks up, gaze leaving his chart. His hand is suspended mid-movement, fingers grasping the pages of his clipboard–“The combination of the lead exposure and the physical trauma was too much.” He shifts, and the medical students behind him glance at each other. “He’ll need a bowel transplant, once we find a suitable donor.”

Hermione closes her eyes, tries to even her breaths. A curious sense of detachment settles over her, static humming in her head. She has questions, words and sounds brimming on her tongue, but the only thing released is: “The donor list is long, isn’t it? He’ll need an exact match.” 

Logistics, facts: she grounds herself with these, pushes away the panic building inside her. 

“Your husband’s young and otherwise healthy. He’ll be near the top, but yes, it may take some time. After the donor passes, there still needs to be testing done to ensure compatibility and–”

“That’s barbaric.” Pansy straightens, pointing at Draco. “You’re going to put a dead person’s organs inside him?”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated–”

“Why can’t you grow him some? Don’t you have a procedure of some sort to make him some new ones? Why should he get refurbished material?”

“We”–the doctor cuts off, glances at Hermione. She looks away–“we don’t currently have the technology for that. Perhaps in the future–”

“So this is your best option?” Pansy’s voice pitches into a shriek. “You’re going to put rotting organs into him? That’s your best fucking idea?”

“Pansy–” Hermione starts to reach for her and stops. She knows what Pansy is thinking: _there must be a potion for this, something like skele-gro._ Hermione has had the same thought, but organs are different than bones, different than skin. Potion’s can’t configure vascularity, form arteries, develop veins. When Hermione saw the bullet wound, realized its location and depth, she knew St. Mungo’s wouldn’t be able to help in the way they needed. Dark magic could, maybe, but nothing Hermione can find and learn quickly enough. 

“And if Draco doesn’t have his surgery?” Pansy asks. Her voice blends from ferocity into apprehension, like she anticipates the silence following her question.

The students clear their throat, busying themselves with their notes. Dr. Caulder opens his mouth, but his answer is cut off by her next question. 

“Where do you find these _donors_?” Pansy purses her lips, and Hermione realizes this is the first time she’s seen her without lipstick. 

“They’re recently deceased patients who have chosen to be organ donors in their end-of-life preparations. If the donor has a viable organ, it will go to someone on the transplant list.” 

Pansy freezes, shoulders tensing so the line of her clavicle sticks out like a shelf. “And can someone choose to whom their organs go?”

“Yes, with designated donation.” Dr. Caulder shifts his weight, sinking his fingers inside his coat pocket. “But, I have to stress, this is not a living donation. The donor would have to be deceased.” 

“Hermione.” Pansy turns to her; there’s an inscrutable look on her face. “Is your father an organ donor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Burning House" Cam  
> "Exile" Taylor Swift & Bon Iver  
> "To Build a Home" The Cinematic Orchestra  
> "Youth" Daughter  
> "Cascade" Philip Daniel & Shawn Williams  
> "Violin Concerto in D Major" Tchaikovsky  
> "Violin Concerto in E Minor" Mendelssohn  
> "The Seal Lullaby" Eric Whitacre


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m not going to sit here and convince you to save your husband.” Theo leans back, arms still crossed, a picture of repose save for the way his fingers dig into the fabric near his elbows. “But you’ll make your choice. You’ll decide if your husband is worth saving, and then I’ll know exactly the type of person you are.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember me? No? Yeah, me neither. I told my betas to arrest me if this chapter wasn't punctual, so I should honestly be doing hard time right now. Nonetheless, thank you all for your patience. As you can see, the chapters are updated, so we are getting closer and closer to the finish. 
> 
> I have so much love for my whole team. They are just the absolute best. 
> 
> I just started graduate school, so I've been pulled in all different directions, but I am 100% committed to seeing this story through. If anything, I think I'm really going to buckle down before the semester gets underway and just get everything on the page. In that sense, all comments & messages are deeply appreciated and a wonderful source of encouragement. 
> 
> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool) and [Endless_musings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endless_musings/pseuds/Endless_musings/works)

“Dad? Can you hear me?” 

Hermione sits on her father’s bed and peers at him, searching for a secret written on his ashen skin, as if he still might be capable of communicating with her.

“Draco’s in the hospital, Dad.” She touches his hand, sliding her fingers under his palm. “He got hurt.”

Inside her bag, she has a folder containing her father’s life: his will, his investments, his advanced directive. The instructions on _what_ will happen next, but none to tell her _when_. 

None to tell her _how_. 

She’s done her own research, searched through textbooks with cracked spines. A transplant won't be like a transaction, with a definitive start and stop–not really. There will be testing done, checklists surveyed, protocols followed. They’ll need to ensure he’s a match, but even after they validate that, the unknowns stretch out far beyond just a _yes_ or _no_ answer. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t been here as much.” She touches her father’s temple, smoothing the permanent groove between his brows. “Are you still in pain?”

Her pulse throbs against her throat, chest tight with panic. The way Pansy had looked at her, the way the doctor’s had. _An impossible decision_ Hermione wanted to say. _How can you ask that of me?_ Instead, she left, jerking open the door, gasping in the cold hallway air. 

She grips her father’s fingers. “Pansy,” she begins before pausing. Her father doesn’t know Pansy. “The doctors,” she tries again, but the words splinter in her mouth. How can she really ask this of her father? It’s not a choice; it’s a mandate: _Draco’s life or his._

She wants this to be excruciating, because what does it say of her that the decision came quickly?

“You know I love you, right?” 

The machines beep; her father’s chest rises and falls with artificial stimulation, the ventilator rattling every few seconds. 

A volley of voices flies through the open door, and she moves to close it. Back pressed against the wood, she stares at her father, tracing the wires threaded around him. “I’ve done a lot of things wrong, haven’t I?” 

The sharp tap of heels echoes down the hallway before stopping nearby. Hermione feels the metal handle turn behind her back, and she instinctively steps forward, pulling her weight off the door. “Granger,” she hears, freezing at the familiar cut of Pansy’s voice. “We need to talk.”

* * *

In the cafeteria, she sits across from Pansy, who frowns down at her cappuccino. 

“I have no idea how muggle hospitals get away with serving this poison.” She bunches up a napkin, tossing it into her cup. 

Hermione watches as the paper shrivels with liquid. She can’t bring herself to face Pansy.

“How is your father?” Pansy finally asks, breaking the silence. 

This actually makes Hermione want to laugh: Pansy’s attempt at compassion, cultivating sympathy before a request. She’s not good at it. 

“You’re asking something impossible of me, Pansy.” This isn’t what Hermione wants to say, but nothing else comes out. Doesn’t Pansy understand that Hermione has already made up her mind? 

“You act as if I’m asking solely for my own interest.” Pansy grips her cup, the tendons in her fingers jump, betraying her even tone. “He’s your husband, after all.” 

“And this is my father we’re talking about.” 

Perversely, Hermione wants this fight; she needs her father to know it wasn’t as easy as it seems. She needs it for her own conscience. 

“I don’t envy your situation, Granger, but–”

“ _E_ _nvy?_ ” Hermione laughs, the edges sharp with bitterness. “That’s your attempt at leveling? _My situation?_ Merlin, Pansy, do you even hear yourself–”

“You have to consider the entire situation. Your father probably won’t wake up–”

“Do not speak about my father. You have no right–”

Pansy slams her palm down, upending the cup and sending a stream of milky liquid onto the formica between them. The din of the cafeteria softens as people blink towards them. “ _I_ don’t have the right?” She rises, leaning over the table, pressing the crest of her hip bones into the edge. “When Draco first started dating you, I didn’t understand, but it made him happy, so I said nothing. And then Draco married you, and I still didn’t understand, but what right did I have to make a fuss over someone who was never mine? And now, Draco is dying, and you somehow can’t see that. Or maybe”–her voice cracks, and she curled her fingers into a first–“you don’t care the way I do–”

“That’s not–”

“ _Shut up_. You may be his wife, and the love of his life. Maybe one day, you’ll even be the mother of his children. But this”–she breathes out, mouth puckered into a rose of anger– “this I won’t let you do. You don’t have the right to kill him.” 

Hermione’s heart throws itself against her ribs, sending vibrations into her throat, closing off her airway. “I would never–”

Pansy throws up a palm, closes her eyes. “Draco almost died for you, or did you temporarily forget? Isn’t it astounding how _stupid_ one can be for the person they love?”

Hermione could have ended this. She knew what to say, had the words chosen, but they swam in her mouth, swallowed downstream. How had she never noticed, all these years? _Pansy’s just a friend now_ Draco had told her, many times. _I doubt she even remembers our schoolyard relationship_. 

“You love him,” Hermione says finally. 

“Of _course_ I love him. It’s why I _tolerate_ you.” She glances around, sneering at the onlookers, but still lowering her voice. “But he loves you, and it would be a pity if that kills him."

* * *

Back in her father’s hospital room, Hermione opens her mouth, tries to find the right words. Her body feels cold, goosebumps kissing her arms from the cold central air, from the echo of Pansy’s words. 

She wants to be with Draco right now, but Pansy’s there, with the Malfoys. If she thinks about this too much, her chest feels tight. In another life–perhaps the right one–that is how it’s meant to be: Pansy Malfoy. Except, in that life, Draco wouldn’t be in the hospital at all. There would have been no need. 

The nurse comes in to check her father’s vitals, and Hermione slips out. She walks down the hall, keeping her head down, and enters the stairwell right as someone exits. She’s crossing the landing from the first to second floors when she hears the _clicking_ of a cane. When she inches forward, peering over the railing, she expects to see the alabaster of Lucius’ hair; instead, she spies chestnut hair rising above a black cloak. 

The man turns, reaching for the handle of the exit, and she catches a flash of profile: Theo. She feels a jolt in her chest, a mixture of confusion and anger. Where had he been the last three days? And where was he going? 

She follows him without thinking, barely composed enough to keep a light thread in her steps. Theo holds a piece of paper between gloved fingers, and he looks down every few steps before scanning the rooms lining the hallway. 

She’s so busy trying to discern what’s in his hand, she doesn’t register the sudden cessation of his steps.

“Aren’t you going to say hello, Granger?” 

She looks up and meets Theo’s gaze. He’s planted under a wooden archway that separates two portions of the first floor. “A little rude to just sneak up on a bloke like that, isn’t it?” He smirks and the lines around his eyes grow starker. 

Heat scrambles up her neck, twisting behind her ears and compelling her to reflexively pull back her curls as protection.

“Theo.” Her mouth runs dry; a schism opens in her mind, dividing the congeries of her thoughts until all she can summon is: “What are you doing?”

“I might ask you the same.” His tone remains even, but his fingers flex on the handle of his cane, tensing around the body of a silver-crafted fox. He follows her stare and then arches a brow. “Fox got your tongue?”

Her heart flutters in the concave beneath her jaw. “Draco’s room is on the third floor,” she finally says. 

“Oh, yes,” he says. “I’m aware.” He crosses the few paces between them, and she wants to step back, but she forces herself to inhale and lift her chin. “I have to take care of some business. Since you’re so curious, why don’t you accompany me?” 

He extends his elbow; the gesture is mocking, but she feels more embarrassed than affronted. People are coming from the opposite end of the hall. To them, this will look like some theatrical flirting, a harmless teasing between budding lovers. It makes her sick to consider what they might think.

She jerks her head in agreement and starts walking, keeping distance from him; his chuckle follows closely behind. She slows at a divergence in the hallway, two corridors branching out like arteries. 

“Probably the first time in awhile you’ll have to follow instead of lead, hmm?” Theo barely glances at her as he pivots to the right and strides across the linoleum. The spaces for seating in the previous hall give way to the monotony of wooden office doors. He stops in front of one of these, reaching for the handle. _Billing Office_ is etched into the nameplate adjacent to the door. 

“Theo,” she starts, but he disappears inside. 

It takes her a few beats to orient herself. When she walks in, Theo is speaking to a woman behind the front desk, but his profile is turned towards the door, expecting her. 

“Claire,” he says, addressing the blonde. He nods towards her. “This is Miss Granger. She’s Draco’s wife and Mr. Granger’s daughter. We’re here to settle the situation I spoke to you earlier about."

Claire nods at her, polite and distant, before handing Theo a pen. “You’ll just need to initial here, and here, and sign below.” Her head seesaws up and down like a bobble head as she speaks and gestures towards the pile of papers between them.

“Theo.” Hermione’s voice sounds strange; the lighting in the room hurts her eyes. “What is going on?"

* * *

He leads her to the cafeteria, gripping a rolled up parchment in his palm. Nodding towards a table, he disappears into a throng of white coats, reappearing a few minutes later with tea. 

“Drink this,” he says. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

She takes a sip and inhales a mouthful of loose leaf. He watches as she coughs, disgust marring his features. 

“What were you doing back there, Theo?” She hates the tremor in her voice, how fraught her words sound. “What did you sign for?”

“I saw Pansy earlier today.” Theo’s still holding the rolled up sheath of papers, and he twists his wrists in opposite directions so the paper jostles. “She said you two had a rather unpleasant conversation.”

Incredulity pulls her brows together. “Theo, what is going on? Why are you even here if it’s not to see Draco–”

“She mentioned that Draco may need something from your father.” 

Hermione closes her eyes. Her throat burns for a reason separate from her tea. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but I doubt it was the whole truth, and there are more important matters–”

He laughs then; the paper cone drops from his fingers as he crosses his arms. “I’d actually argue that keeping Draco alive is the most important matter at hand, which makes this topic of conversation extremely relevant–”

“Of course helping Draco is the most important thing–don’t twist my words. But right now I want to know what just happened in that office.”

His lips thin, the edges turning white with pressure before he continues. “I’m going to tell you something, something I probably shouldn’t. I’m going to tell you this mainly because, as Draco’s wife, you deserve to know the type of man you married before you make this _life-altering_ choice.” Venom drips from his words, flowing onto the formica between them. 

She blinks at him, and then down at her hands, clawed around the paper cup. Her heartbeat vibrates against her eardrums as she considers all the things Theo could possibly say. Does she have a breaking point? Is there anything he can tell her that would change her decision?

Theo clears his throat and cards a hand through the curls above his temple. “Draco ran into some financial troubles. Actually, the firm ran into some financial troubles. We couldn’t secure the clients we needed. Draco and I each put in 50% of the initial investment, but he had some...outstanding debts to handle. He pulled his investment out, and eventually, asked me for a loan. We closed the firm two months ago” 

His tone is even, effortless-like they’re discussing the weather, like he’s walking her through his morning routine: _First I wake up, then I cross to the–_

Her mouth parts, but his hand shoots up as he continues. “I don’t care about the money. That’s not the point. But, Granger, I want you to think: what could Draco have used that money for?”

The world thrums with her vertigo. “I–I don’t understand.” Where had Draco been disappearing to then? What was he doing in his study?

Theo lays his hands on the table, fingers sprawled. “I don’t need you to understand. I need you to _think_. What would Draco go into debt for. Rather, _who_ would he go into debt for?”

“But I never asked him for money. All our expenses were shared. There would be no need–”

“No”–a muscle twitches in his jaw–“not for you directly, but what about indirectly? Why was I at the hospital billing office, Granger?”

The tea from earlier sloshes inside Hermione, sending shockwaves through her stomach; she grips the edge of the table. “Draco took out a loan to pay for my parents’ care?”

Theo’s eyes narrow into a squint, but his body remains stock still. “I promised Draco I wouldn’t tell you, but look: you’ve figured it out yourself, haven’t you?” He smiles, gruesome and wide, and then it drops away, disappearing into the void of his face. “He sent me an owl in January, explaining his situation further. He’s on some sort of muggle payment plan with the hospital. He planned to be here today and pay the next installment, but obviously that didn’t work out.”

He reaches for the paper, unfurls the edges and slides it over. She tries to smooth out the wrinkles of the billing statement, but the ink blurs in front of her, the bright red numerals shouting across various sections of the page. 

“I don’t understand. This has been going on for months,” she finally says. She looks up. “He’s kept this secret for months.”

“How much of it was a secret and how much of it was willful ignorance on your part?”

She inhales, feels the tendons in her throat seize. “I asked him how the firm–”

“He took a trip earlier this year, didn’t he? To France? Why do you think he did that?” 

Spit gathers in her mouth, and she swallows, and then again. She has this terrible image in her mind: her in the bathroom, nose stuffed into the cotton of his shirt, searching for something she’s ashamed to admit. 

“Tell me, have you ever met Lucius’ mother? She’s quite a wealthy woman, one with a soft spot for her grandson.” Theo crosses his arms and stares at her down the line of his nose. “This hospital happens to be one of the most private facilities money can buy.

Her thoughts short-circuit; she should feel outraged by his tone and its implications, but the only words she can grasp are: “We’ll pay you back, of course.” _We_ feels strange on her tongue, like her mouth wants to ward against overpromising. Will it still be a collective _we_ or will it devolve into a singular _I_?

Theo’s laugh clips her against the cheek, like a slap. “The money is the least of your worries. I doubt you’d be able to pay me back if you tried. But I’m telling you this because I needed to see for myself if Pansy was correct.”

“Correct?”

“I’m not going to sit here and convince you to save your husband.” Theo leans back, arms still crossed, a picture of repose save for the way his fingers dig into the fabric near his elbows. “But you’ll make your choice. You’ll decide if your husband is worth saving, and then I’ll know exactly the type of person you are.”

* * *

The monitor continues to beep. The ventilator pumps. Her father’s chest rises and falls. The rhythm inside this hospital room doesn’t change. If Hermione lets it, it could go on indefinitely, until one day it stops, short circuits: entirely, but organically.

Or, she can sign some forms. She can hold her father’s hand one last time. She can signal to the nurses and doctors and step away, watch the breath evaporate from his frame. 

Four floors below, her husband lies in acute care. It’s eight in the evening; the nurses must be taking his vitals. With each inhale, she can see the paleness of his skin, the cracks in his lips, the tremor beneath his closed eyelids. 

“How long do you think it’ll take before we know whether he’s a match?” Hermione glances at Dr. Marron. His hands are clasped in front of him, eyes trained on the monitor adjacent to her father. 

“I’m not sure, Hermione. It could take a little while.”

“Draco doesn’t have much time.”

The doctor closes his eyes, adjust his glasses. “We’ll definitely take that into consideration, but there are certain protocols–”

“I understand.” But she doesn’t. Not really. Nothing much makes sense to her anymore. The tissue inside her feels electrified, zinging with apprehension.

She doesn’t want to ask this question, but her mouth becomes a traitor. “Will it hurt? When he’s taken off life support?” 

“We administer certain medications to prevent that type of pain,” he says. “I can talk you through the process–”

“No,” she says. “That’s fine.” She doesn't know how to say: _It won’t matter anyways. I’ve made up my mind already._

The soundtrack of medical equipment around them continues, ebbing and flowing. “Do you think I’m making a mistake?” She finally asks. Sweat drips down her neck even though her body feels cold, her bones tender. “Do you think he still wants to live?”

She closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to see that look he gives her, the pitying, soft one, edges laced with compassion. She wants to bury all of this–this exact moment–deep into the bookshelves of her mind. Tear it from her hippocampus. 

“Hermione,” he says, and then he pauses, waiting for her to open her eyes. “When you father was handling his end-of-life affairs, I asked him if he would like to sign a DNR–”

She feels the sting of salt in her nostrils, the growing lump in her throat. _You have to try_ , he had said. _You have to try and let me go_. 

“–but he never signed one.”

Can she kill her father? Really, does she have it in her? After everything, after all she’d done. Can she do more? What lengths would she go to?

“Hermione”–he reaches out, fingers almost touching her shoulder before he pulls back–”your father said he wanted to give you the chance to say goodbye.” 

There’s a strange sound coming from somewhere in the room, high-pitched and nasally. Her eyes dart across the room, scavenging for what’s happening. That awful, awful sound. It sounds like– she looks down; the collar of her shirt is wet and heavy against her skin. _Oh_. It’s her. The sound is coming from her own throat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, who would win in a fight? Pansy or Theo?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If she tries to revisit last year, the walls of the hospital close in on her. The ventilators. The doctor. The nurses. There are other memories, she’s sure of this, but she can’t remember them. She remembers her mother; she remembers watching her mother die. She remembers her father; she remembers forcing her father to die. But the people that she lost along the way. Those instances blur together: Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly, Arthur, Fred, Bill, Luna, Hannah, Seamus, Dean. She stopped responding to owls. She didn’t always show up for events. She hid, often. But there was supposed to be more time. The human brain can only process one cognitive task at a time; Her approach was logical: fix her parents, and then she’d have all the time in the world to fix everything else._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves! Thanks so much for sticking with this story. Life has gotten a bit unwieldy for me, but I'm really trying to finish this piece and do it justice. Because of that, I'm going to post these next four chapters unbetaed, to make sure I get them out before the semester begins and I'm inundated again. I have so much love for all of you for continuing to read, and I have an incredible amount of love, gratitude, and respect for my awesome alpha / beta team and for how far they've helped me carry this story.
> 
> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: mightbewriting & pargcool and Endless_musings
> 
> All mistakes on this next chapter are my own.

She loses time, first in snippets and then in chunks. There’s a lot of medical professionals talking to her, murmuring and pointing at different sheets of paper where she has to _sign here and then–yes–initial right there._ The sun hurts her eyes. The monitors hurt her ears. 

A procession line of azalea-pink scrubs blurs into the room, needles glinting, vials of blood held aloft in their fingers. 

Vaguely, she hears the words _good news_ , _a match_. The words constrict around her chest until all she can do is bob her head up and down stupidly. 

There are other voices, voices of people she knows. She thinks at one point Pansy touched her hand, but that can’t be right. Did she tell Pansy about her decision? If so, when? How many hours have passed, or is it over a day now? 

“We’ll try to expedite the tests,” Dr. Marron had affirmed. Had he kept his promise?

He must have, because she blinks, and she’s alone with her father, fingers laced against his. 

“It’s not going to hurt,” she says, but her voice sounds hollow. “They promised me it wouldn’t hurt.” 

She gives a signal, her head nodding of its own accord; the gesture summons a nurse. She closes her eyes, just for a second, but she must have lost time again because she hears the panicked beeping–all those machines trying to signal _a problem_ , an _SOS_ –and she knows she doesn’t need to open her eyes to see what’s happened. 

* * *

What does she expect to feel? She wishes she had words for this type of grief, the kind that’s also tainted by anticipation. Her father died today. Her husband may wake up soon. What does it say about her that she manages to exist in a liminal space where both these truths hold? 

Time takes on a strange shape in the hospital room, stretches out endlessly, smothering her sense of reality. She’s in Draco’s room now, full time. There is no other hospital room for her to return.

Near midnight, searching for the edge of sleep, she hears the muffled conversation of the Malfoys. 

“We need to discuss his convalescence.” 

“I assumed we were all aware that he would be retiring to Malfoy Manor.”

“Lucius, had you not considered he has a wife? Do you really think she would concede so easily?”

A pause, a puff of breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “Quite honestly, I hadn’t considered her at all.” 

* * *

In the morning, she pretends to still be asleep when the Malfoys reappear. She hears the tap of Lucius’ shoes on linoleum followed by his drawl. “I’m impressed she’s able to rest so peacefully. I almost want to congratulate her.” 

Hermione’s fingers twitch, and she swallows, tries to stay still. She starts counting, arrives at _10_ before the door shuts with a soft _click_. She’s thinking about last night, about the ways she’s been written out of plans she hadn’t considered, when the door opens again and she snaps her eyes shut again. A pair of footsteps pauses in front of her, a clearing of the throat. She tries to will herself away, imagines the heavy drape of Harry’s invisibility cloak around her.

“Mione?” It’s not the voice she expects, and she opens her eyes to red hair and concerned, blue eyes. Ron kneels down and pauses for a beat before reaching for her hand. 

“Ron?” She blinks, sits up. “What are you doing here?” 

“How are you?”

She doesn’t mean to, but she laughs, and it comes out strange, the edges jagged. “Why are you here, Ronald?” 

There’s a beat of silence. Is he shocked by her question or by her outburst? He places a palm on the armrest of her chair, fingers almost touching her wrist, and pushes himself up. “Why don’t we get some tea? There’s probably a canteen, right?” 

On the walk down, he keeps a hand on her back, and they pass by some nurses she recognizes. She wants to shrug him off–-she wonders what the nurses think when they see her with Ron. Are they building stories in their heads? It makes her skin itch. “Ron,” she says, her mouth opening and then closing. She can’t bring herself to chastise him. She knows she doesn’t have too many people left. 

In the cafeteria, she stares at him under the fluorescent light. His hair is long, bangs brushing against his eyelashes. There’s a scar on his face, a slash right across his jaw. She wants to ask him about it, but she stares instead. He grimaces as he sips on the tea he bought them. “Pansy told me it was a match.” He avoids eye contact and picks up a sugar packet, rips a neat incision into the corner, spilling granules and rearranging them in the grooves of his palm. “She said they’re going to try to prep Draco for surgery tonight.” 

She nods, circles the rim of her own cup and then digs her nail in, puncturing off a tuft of styrofoam. 

Ron licks his thumb, stabs it into his palm and sucks the glittering crystals. He swallows. “Is there anything I can do?” He wipes his hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. The ministry had me on a mission in Bulgaria.” He trails off, chagrined; she knows he can’t tell her. 

“It’s fine, Ronald...Thank you for asking.” 

She wants to ask about Harry, about where he went. Has Ron seen him yet? Has Harry told him about the situation? Once, she had two best friends, two parents, and a husband. Now, she might not have anyone.

“I heard about your father–”

“Please don’t.” She twists the napkin in her palm. “Just, please, not right now.”

“Right, sorry.” 

Vivaldi’s _Winter_ floats through the cafeteria speakers, and Hermione watches a young woman push an older gentleman in a wheelchair, navigating through the buffet line. 

“Ron,” Hermione says. “Could you stay with me? For the surgery? Could you stay and wait with me?” She hates this, her voice, the request, how her fingers tremble against her cup. “I understand if you need to go though, so–”

“‘Mione.” Ron clears his throat. “I can definitely do that.”

* * *

When had she and Ron lost touch? Not exactly a rupture, a _stop_ in communication, but rather a gradual loosening. There was her sabbatical to Australia, and then her romance with Draco, and then her marriage, all of which she knew Ron opposed. But still, he floo-ed. He owled. The conversations were stitched together by codas of silence, but he was there. Until he wasn’t. So maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was her. Maybe it had always been her. 

If she tries to revisit last year, the walls of the hospital close in on her. The ventilators. The doctor. The nurses. There are other memories, she’s sure of this, but she can’t remember them. She remembers her mother; she remembers watching her mother die. She remembers her father; she remembers forcing her father to die. But the people that she lost along the way. Those instances blur together: Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly, Arthur, Fred, Bill, Luna, Hannah, Seamus, Dean. She stopped responding to owls. She didn’t always show up for events. She hid, often. But there was supposed to be more time. The human brain can only process one cognitive task at a time; Her approach was logical: fix her parents, and then she’d have all the time in the world to fix everything else. 

By the time Ron and her have finished their drinks, they’ve stopped trying to fill the silence. He waits for her to lead the way to Draco’s room, puts a hand on her shoulder as he opens the hallway doors. The Malfoys aren’t there when they enter. Instead, Pansy sits on Draco’s bed, Theo and Blaise seated in the two nearby chairs. 

“Oh, Granger. Seems like you brought a guest.” Theo pauses and slowly rises from the chair, grinning a too-wide smile. “Please”–he gestures towards his vacated seat–“make yourself at home, Weasley.” 

The edges of Theo’s lips twitch. Hermione feels Ron stiffen beside her, his arm dropping from her shoulder as Pansy stares. 

“Lovely scar, Weasley.” Pansy shifts, but stays seated, her hand resting on Draco’s. “Misfired spell?”

“Ministry business.” 

She laughs, tips her chin up. “Another Weasley in the ministry. Shocking. No wonder they can’t ever seem to get anything done there.”

“Pans.” Blaise presses his pointer and middle finger into his forehead, shuts his eyes. “Let’s not, shall we? Our patient is resting.” He glances at Ron and then looks away. 

Silence. Hermione’s skin prickles. Theo rocks forward on his feet. He’s still smiling at Ron, lips pulled up just shy of a smirk, eyes narrowed. Ron stares back, and she hears his breath quicken. She wants to touch his arm, to signal, but she knows it’ll be misconstrued. 

Blaise leans forward and pulls on Theo’s sleeve. “Let’s grab some coffee, mate. Give Granger and Weasley a chance to sit and rest.” 

“Right, right. Of course.” Theo gestures towards his seat again. His nostrils flare with his exhale. “I wouldn’t dream of ruining such a _beautiful_ reunion.” He glances back. “Pans?”

“I’ll stay. Bring me back a cappuccino, please.” 

The door clicks shut. Pansy barely looks at them, focuses on Draco instead, stroking her fingers across the back of his hand. Hermione waits for the spark of jealousy, the kindling of possessiveness. Instead, she feels misplaced, an intruder on such an intimate scene. She sees this clearly now, this other future Draco could have had, this other wife.

“Have the doctors said anything?” she finally asks. 

“Oh, you mean, did you miss anything important while you and Weasley were fraternizing?” 

Ron leans forward, like he’s about to interject, but Hermione touches his arm. Her pulse hammers, but she licks her lips and says. “About the surgery. Have there been any updates?”

The other woman huffs. “If you cared so much, why didn’t you ask the doctor yourself?”

“Pansy,” Hermione says. “Please.” Hermione blinks, tries to meet Pansy’s stare, but she looks away. A flicker of a memory nudges Hermione: Pansy’s palm on her shoulder, the gentle squeeze of fingers while Hermione held her father’s cooling hand. She knows she’s lost the other woman’s respect with Ron’s appearance. But how can she explain this phenomenon? That sometimes things happen to her and she has no control over the timing–-that’s always been her problem, a lack of control. 

“They’ll operate tonight,” the other woman finally says. “The Malfoys went back to the manor to prepare Draco’s room.

“Draco’s room?” A pit lodges in Hermione’s throat. Her voice springs out, high and panicky. She knows this information, but she didn’t really think– “They’re bringing him back to Malfoy Manor?” 

Pansy rolls her eyes. “You sound surprised, Granger. What, exactly, did you think would happen? You’d take him home to your little _hovel_. Play nursemaid? Are you even emotionally capable of thinking about anyone other than yourself?” 

“That’s enough, Pans–” Ron clears his throat. 

“I mean, honestly. What makes you think you have the authority–let alone the expertise–to care for Draco?” 

“I’m his wife–”

At this, Pansy finally turns towards Hermione. Her voice is thin and vicious, teeth peeking out under the curl of her lip. “And I’m his _best friend_. And they are his _parents_. And we are the ones who have loved him, who have taken care of him since he was a little boy. So, who are you, really? What have you done for him?” She leans forward and drops her voice lower. “What have you done _to_ him?” 

“You are way out of line, Pansy. You have no right–”

“Not only am I not speaking to you, Weaslebee, not only do I have no desire to ever speak to you, but I’m going to _kindly_ ask you to shut the fuck–”

“Stop.” Hermione’s voice comes out loud and harsh, cutting through the room. Pansy’s mouth swings shut, and her eyebrows furrow, like she’s surprised by her own reaction. 

Hermione inhales. “Please. I don’t want Draco to hear this.” Is it ridiculous for her to think like this? Is he listening? Does he agree with Pansy? “I don’t want to disturb Draco.” 

Laughter from outside punctures the silence. There’s the rise and fall of footsteps, the screech of wheels on the linoleum. 

“Pansy, I want him to get better just as much as you do,” Hermione says.

She tries to steel herself for another outburst, but the other woman stays quiet, brushes her hair behind her ears and turns her attention back to Draco. Her voice is softer when she speaks, the malice diluted. “It’ll be better if he’s there. They’ll have around-the-clock care.” She runs her fingers along the creases in his bedsheet. “They’re even asking that healer to come.”

“What healer?”

Pansy stills; her hand rests on the ledge of the bed. “You don’t know?”

“What are you talking about, Pansy?” Panic climbs the ladder of Hermione’s ribs. “What healer?”

Something like a laugh forces itself through Pansy’s lips. “They didn’t tell you?” She shakes her head, her mouth puckering into a grimace. “You haven’t figured it out?”

Hermione’s head hurts. Claws dig into the side of her scalp, forcing out her words. “Pansy, _please_.” 

“You know, sometimes I look at you, and I think our biggest mistake was that we overestimated you. Everyone just assumed you could handle all of it.” Pansy crosses her ankles and places her hands in her lap. “It’s your curse, isn’t it? People only look at you and see the smartest witch of her age. They don’t see you for who you are.” 

Hermione’s skin hurts. The blood in her head roars, and she feels panicky. A migraine drills behind her eye, short-circuiting her thoughts. 

Pansy stands up and moves past her, and Hermione wants to reach out and grab the other woman, but she’s not sure what to say anymore. Before she leaves the room, Pansy turns towards her: “Ask Theo. Ask him about the healer.”

* * *

Draco’s surgery happens that evening, at 8 PM. When the surgical team wheeled Draco away, Hermione felt separate from her body. She had read once, in one of her father’s books, about Cartesian dualism. 

_Argument:_

  * _If it is impossible to distinguish, with absolute certainty, whether I am awake or asleep based on my perceptions, then I have reason to doubt my perceptions._
  * It is impossible to distinguish, with absolute certainty, whether I am awake, or asleep based on my perceptions; therefore, I have reason to doubt my perceptions. 



She likes this because it means there is a world, perhaps unreachable and unknowable to her, where all the people she loves are safe, where she no longer has to trust her senses or experiences.

She also likes the later divide Descartes draws: mind over matter. _I can be certain that my mind exists_ but _I cannot be certain that my body exists._ Therefore, _the mind and body must be different things._ She imagines her brain in a jar, floating, reviewing the wreckage of her life, highlighting her mistakes so she can learn from them. Meanwhile, her body glides through the world and goes through the motions. Her body cries, her body moves, her body submits to all its barbaric needs.

Eight hours have already passed. People flit in and out of the room. They’re waiting for an update, a flash of azalea-pink scrubs to tell them good news. Narcissa and Lucius sneer as orderlies and other patients pass Draco’s room. Blaise, Theo, and Pansy pace in the hallway. Ron sits next to her as she stares at the empty hospital bed. Ron hasn’t moved, nor has he tried to speak. For this, she feels grateful. Pansy’s directive pushes into her abdomen, like a sandbag, stealing her air. _Ask Theo_. He’s right outside the room, but she can’t bring herself to move. Her limbs are cemented into the seat. 

Earlier, Harry and Ginny dropped by, for two hours, before they got called away again. The room had felt like a battleground then, the Slytherins on one side and the Gryffndors on another. Another version of Hermione might even have been amused. 

“I can’t stand this,” Narcissa says. She rubs a hand across her forehead before dropping her arms. “I’m going to go for a walk.”

“I’ll join you, darling.” Lucius glances at her and Ron. “The air in this room is quite...stifling.” 

There’s the soft murmur of voices as the Malfoys depart, stopping to speak to the others in the hallway. Hermione watches the latticework of moonlight on the linoleum. How much longer? She’s read 8-10 hours for an operation like this. She knows there’s still time, that no news may be good news, but she feels dread rush through her veins at every set of footsteps that passes the room without stopping in. 

“‘Mione”–Ron yawns, shakes his head–“do you mind if I go grab us some coffee?”

“No, of course not.” She rubs her thumb across her knuckles. “Ron, you don’t have to stay. You can go home.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll just be a few minutes. Tea? Or coffee?”

A rush of tenderness slams into her, forcing her to look away. She has so much affection for the man that Ron has become, the friend she always had but couldn’t always see. “Tea, please. Earl Grey.”

He taps her shoulder and walks off. 

When she hears the sound of footsteps again, she wonders if he’s left something, but it’s Theo’s voice that she hears. “Sitting alone, are we?”

“Theo,” she says. Her voice is low and hoarse. “Where are the others?” 

“Shockingly, they decided to accompany Weasley for provisions.” 

She nods. Her chest aches. Ice courses through her veins. They’re alone. She could ask now, but she starts to wonder if she even wants to know.

He takes a seat next to her, and a part of her wants to recoil. He is Pandora’s box. 

“I presume they’ve told you about Draco’s convalescence? At the manor?” 

She nods. There are things she wants to say, arguments she has stored up, but her tongue stays limp. 

“No righteous tirade, Granger?”

She lets the silence drag on a beat. She stares at his hands, sees how they fidget on his knees. She knows this is an act, at least some of it. He’s worried as well. She holds onto this thought as she opens her mouth and says, “Pansy mentioned a healer. She said I should ask you.”

Theo’s hands still, and then he digs his fingernails into his slacks, twisting the material. “Gossiping with Pansy? You’re full of surprises today, Granger.”

“Theo”–she swallows around the lump in her throat–”no more games. Tell me what’s going on.” 

“Do you remember that conversation we had in the hallway? What did I say to you again? _Think,_ Hermione–”

“–Why are you doing this–

“–Have you not been paying any attention–

“–You may not see this, but I love, Draco–

“‘Then why”–and now, he looks murderous. His hands are gripping his knees with force, and a vein jumps in his jaw–”does Draco not believe that?” 

She inhales, feeling the force of his words crash into her. She stares, stunned. 

“If you love him so much, Hermione, why didn’t Draco believe that?” 

She looks up, digs her fingers into her palms and blinks, willing the light to stop streaking in her vision. “Theo, I’m trying my best here. I care–” her voice cracks–”just as much as you do” _if not more_ she thinks, but she can’t bring herself to say it. _I made a sacrifice today too_. She doesn’t want this fight. 

He doesn’t answer, and she looks up to find he’s staring at the bed. He taps out a rhythm of his kneecaps before smoothing down the creases there. He seems resigned. 

“Draco hired a healer,” he finally says, catching her off-guard. She scrambles to re-orient herself to the conversation. “After your parents’ were hospitalized , he hired a healer from St. Mungos to pose here as a nurse–”

A high-pitched buzzing starts in her ears, and Theo’s voice comes through as if filtered underwater. 

“–Her name is Tabitha. She kept an eye on your parents, continued to work on potential magical causes to their malady.” 

Her brain hurts, aches with the effort of trying to connect his words with her memories. A nurse. Which nurse? 

“I’m told she’s a very renowned healer. I’ve met her a few times. I can’t say I hold the same regard for her that Draco apparently did.” 

There had been so many nurses. Which one? They all blurred into the same face. Were there any that seemed somehow different? _Think,_ _Hermione_. 

“Tabitha was, obviously, unsuccessful, but she was useful in other ways. She alerted Potter to your father’s worsening condition, in early February, before he got...” he trails off. 

_Oh_ –there was one. The nurse who stared. The one who looked frightened, like she was hiding a secret. Concrete fills her lungs. Hermione places her palm against her chest and rubs her sternum, tries to force air in. “Why didn’t Draco ever say anything? Why didn’t–” 

“Because he didn’t want to set any expectations.” Theo finally looks at her. “He worried that Tabitha wouldn’t be able to identify the problem.” 

“I–”

“You can surmise, I assume, that Tabitha’s fees are another reason Draco needed a loan… Privatized medicine is indeed as expensive as one would imagine.” 

Her cheeks are wet, and she lets the water drip down her neck, staining her shirt. “I didn’t know–”

“Well”–Theo smiles, but it’s not as mocking as she expected. He pities her, she realizes–”now you do.” 

“Can I–”

“Mrs. Malfoy?”

They both turn towards the source of the sound. A nurse stands in the doorway, frowning. She points at Hermione. “Are you the wife of Draco Malfoy?”

She stands, wipes her hand across her face. “Yes, yes, that’s me.” 

“We just finished operating. The surgeon will be out to speak to you soon, but I came to let you know as soon as possible.” 

“Is he alright?” Theo says. He’s standing as well. 

“I’ll let the surgeon do most of the talking, but yes, I would say the surgery was successful.” 

She feels faint with the possibilities. Theo’s shoulders lower with his exhalation. The nurse looks at each of them, waiting for something, but when only silence greets her, she nods and turns to leave. 

“Can we see him?” Theo steps forward.

“Not yet, but soon.” 

* * *

She’s imagined this moment, many times, over the last few days. She has a journal entry where she’s drafted out what she wants to say, but all of it feels inadequate as soon as she walks into the recovery room and sees Draco’s pale face, his tired grey eyes. 

They’re alone. They’ve let her have the first visit. She knows she has only a few minutes of this privacy before the intrusion of other voices.

“Draco,” she says. Her eyes brim with tears and she hates the tremble in her voice. She touches his hand, waits to see if he’ll pull back. He gives her a smile that doesn’t fully meet his eyes. 

“How are you?” she asks, and she wants to swallow her stupidity. 

He chuckles; the sound is strained and throws him into a coughing fit. She rushes to hand him the cup of water nearby and dabs at the edges of his lips where the water has escaped. At this, he does pull back. “I’m fine,” he says, and he doesn’t look at her. 

She has things she wants to say, things she needs to stay, but she can’t stop staring at him. He seems uncomfortable under her scrutiny. His fingers twitch beneath hers. 

“Are you in pain?” she finally settles on. “I can get a doctor.”

“I’m all right.” 

“I missed you.” The words come out in a rush. She’s not sure what reaction she wants, exactly. She hopes he can read between the lines and see what she means: _I’m sorry. Please don’t leave_. She feels very tired and very small. 

“I’m here now.” 

She lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob. He squeezes her hand, once, twice. A part of her wishes he would yell at her, like it means he still cared enough to yell. 

“Are my parents here?” 

She nods, wipes her nose on the back of her sleeve. “Yes, I can get them if you want. They’ve been here the whole time. Blaise, Theo, and Pansy as well.” 

He exhales. “Thank you for calling them.”

This formality, like they barely know each other. She wants to shake herself out of this moment, but all she can do is grasp his hand harder and then let go with a jerky movement. Has she hurt him? Was her hold too strong? 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“I hope they release me soon,” he says. He turns to look out the window. “I’ve always hated hospitals.” 

“I think the surgeon said you won’t have to be here too long.” She swallows, licks her lips. “Your parents have suggested you move into the manor. I heard they’ve set up a room for you, contacted a private healer.” 

He stares at her, searching her face, waiting for her next move. It’s too soon for this conversation, about Tabitha, the money, the ways in which they’ve deluded one another. They can talk about all of it later. She continues, “If you wanted, we could also just go...home.” She’s cautious about using that word, in case that’s no longer what he thinks of their life together as.

The machine beside him beeps, and she counts the bursts of sound. 

“Maybe it’s for the best, if I spend a few days at the manor, just in the beginning.” 

“Right,” she nods, her chin jerking up and down. “Of course. Anything you want.” 

She hears Pansy’s voice drift in from outside _How much longer will this take, honestly? She can’t just hog him like–_

She’s scared to ask the next question. It rises, like a wave, growing in momentum until it crashes through. “I could also, come with you, to the manor?” The ending pitches up into a question, devoid of the assuredness she wanted to infuse within the suggestion. “But only if that’s what you want.” 

He inhales, the corner of his lips lifting. When he looks at her, there’s an inscrutable expression on his face. She bites down on her lips as she waits for his answer. Dawn starts to break through the clouds, and she squints as the light washes over him, illuminating the purple shadows under his eyes. He looks tired, but not unhappy. 

“Yes,” he finally says, and he touches her wrist, slides his fingers over her pulse point. “I’d like that.” 

  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Silence. There’s a small, perverse part of her that hopes he says no, that he leaves her to her consequences, but she knows he would never do that to her. She’s always known this about him, that there are limits to the cruelty he practices; he’s always known his boundaries. It’s one of the reasons she loves him. Sometimes, she’s not sure she recognizes her own._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool) and [Endless_musings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endless_musings/pseuds/Endless_musings/works)
> 
> They are the best team in the world.
> 
> PS: Chapter 12 is written (just terrible at the moment and in need of dire surgery) and Chapter 13 is drafted. I promise I'll work very hard to make sure the wait isn't terrible.

_She sits in at a table [Flickers of guilt kindle regret]. The chandelier drips diamonds of light onto her skin [For all that was left unsaid or undone]. She has a book cracked open, the spine flexible from overuse [There are days when you wake up happy]. A low level of panic skitters across Hermione [Again inside the fullness of life]. If she squints, the landscape looked familiar: the ministry library, the Hogwarts library [Suddenly with no warning]. But then the furniture morphs, the shelves shimmer, the light fractures [You are ambushed by grief]. It reminds her of the painting with the melting clocks, all that color, dripping away [It becomes hard to trust yourself]._

_She starts to flip through the pages in front of her [The definition of insanity]_. _So much red, everywhere [is performing the same actions over and over again]. Some pages are ripped [yet expecting a different result]._

 _She’s staring at a photograph. Draco’s on a table, arms strapped down, eyes wide and afraid: the scalpel lifts [Like a slender fish, it waits, at the ready, then, go! It darts, followed by a fine wake of red]. So much blood [The flesh parts, falling away to yellow globules of fat]. He starts to scream; the page vibrates [Beneath the fat lies the fascia, the tough fibrous sheet encasing the muscles. It must be sliced and the red beef of the muscles separated]. His legs kick out; she feels her abdomen tighten as his is peeled back_ _[the indolent coils of the intestine]._

 _She turns the page and sees her father’s body [Deeper still]. Hemorrhaging blood [The peritoneum, pink and gleaming and membranous]. A canyon opened in his abdomen [bulges into the wound]. His eyes are open [it is grasped with forceps, and opened]_ _, t_ _he whites latticed by veins [The cavity of the abdomen]_ _._ _His_ _pupils bore into hers [Such a primitive place]_ _._ _Is this what you wanted? Are you happy now, Hermione?_

She jerks up. Her nightgown sticks to her back and she inhales, greedy for air. Her heart hammers a violent concert. When she tries to wrap the sheet around herself tighter, her fingers tremble and she has to stick them under her thighs, press her forehead into her knees. 

She checks her wand: 4:15 AM. She won’t sleep again, so she wraps her dressing robe around herself and walks into the kitchen, squints at the harsh assault of light. She’s staring at the rim of bubbles on her coffee when Ron walks in, already dressed.

“Sorry,” she says. “Did I wake you?” 

He laughs. “Jet lag.” And then. “You look awful, Hermione.” 

“I can’t sleep.”

They keep doing this, meeting in the kitchen, almost every single night since he’s been here. She’s grateful he’s offered to stay with her while Draco’s at the hospital, even though Harry and Ginny probably suggested it. They don’t trust her to be alone. She’s picking her battles very carefully. 

“Nightmares?”

She flushes; she hates that she told him what the dreams are about. She hates that she’s an adult but her mind still terrorizes itself. 

He pulls out a chair and she winces at the violent _screech_ of the action. “We don’t have to–”

“Then let’s please not–”

“But you have to tell him–”

“–too soon–”

“Hermione”–he takes her hand in his–“you have to tell Draco who the donor is.” 

His fingers feel moist and warm in a way that makes her want to snatch her palm back. 

“Once you know something,” she says, “you can’t ever unknow it.” 

The clock in the hallway chimes. She stares at her thumb; blood seeps from where she’s gnawed off the skin of her cuticle. 

“He’s going to ask eventually. Hasn’t he wondered about your father?”

“He knows Dad...passed. I just haven’t told him how yet.” 

What would Draco say, she wondered, if he knew what _–_ who– he harbored inside of him now. 

* * *

They’ve moved Draco from the ICU to a transplant ward, in a private room she knows they can’t afford anymore. She imagines Theo or the Malfoys will pay for it, and that knowledge both soothes and pains her. She cannot afford her own pride anymore.

His room is a carousel of faces: doctors, nurses, family, friends. She hasn’t had much time alone with him, but a week into his recovery, she enters the room and finds it devoid of its usual inhabitants, just Draco. It’s early, too early for visiting hours, but she’s realized the security in the hospital is lackluster and rarely will anyone stop her if she’s able to get past the nurse’s desk. He’s reading a book–a short story collection by Chekhov–when she walks in, and he gives her a small, tired smile, earmarking the novel without breaking eye contact. 

“Have you been up long?”

He shakes his head. “An hour, maybe.” 

“I’m sorry. I would have come earlier, but visit–”

He shakes his head. “They did some tests, earlier.” His smile is tight and perfunctory. “I’m glad you weren’t here to see them.” 

She sometimes plays this game with herself: _if Draco hadn’t almost died for her, would he tell her about the tests? If Draco still trusted her, would he have more to say to her? What is Draco thinking about, right now?_

There’s a part of her, an ugly, unrelenting part, that wonders if Draco is showing her such kindness only because she’s lost her father. Would he still look at her this way if he knew the truth? She’s squinting at him, trying to solve the answer to the last question, when he lets out a huff of laughter. “I’m fine,” he says. “You’ll go cross-eyed if you keep staring at me like that.” 

“Sorry, I just–”

“It’s okay.” He pats the mattress, and she makes her way over. Usually, when others are around, she sits in a chair by his bed. The intimacy of this moment makes her chest tight. “My parents are asking for an early discharge. At the end of next week.”

“That’s...soon.” Much too soon, from what she understands. 

He shrugs. “Tabitha will be there.” His shoulders tense and his eyes dart towards her face, waiting for her reaction. They haven’t talked about this yet, the ways in which they’ve deluded one another: the trip to France, the firm, the money, the healer. It’s too soon. There will be more time, she thinks, in the future. 

She nods. “Are you sure you’ll feel ready to leave?” 

He glances up before he speaks, fingers twitching against the blankets. “I think I could recover faster if we leveraged some magical methods.” 

“Right.” Her throat is closing up, and she knows she’ll have to feign an excuse soon, a reason to leave the room. “I understand.” 

* * *

She carries this fear inside of her: there’s an intersection between the natural and the magical that corrupts; she’s seen this happen. She trusts neither her intuition nor her fears. 

She’s tried to articulate this concern to the Malfoys. _Why wouldn’t we use magical means to expedite his healing?_ Lucius hissed in response. _Your own inadequacies are not a reflection of magic at large._ She has no counterargument for this. 

So, instead, she worries, tracking every jump of Draco’s heart rate on the monitor, scrutinizing the variations in his blood pressure. He has a clear tube attached to his chest that snakes under the rails of his bed. A milky substance flows through it, and every time he scratches the area she wants to tell him _stop_.

“Miss Granger,” Lucius drawls out, interrupting her thoughts. “I presume you’ve heard of Draco’s early discharge? I hope you’ll be so kind as to pack some things for him, for when he moves to the manor.” And then, as an afterthought, he adds, “And, of course, your own things as well.” 

Draco slides his hand into hers, a quick pulse of his fingers; she exhales and forces herself to nod at Lucius. 

Later, in the hallway, she stands by the Malfoys as they wait for the elevator. The red numbers increase as the elevator ascends. It surprises her, slightly, that the Malfoys are comfortable getting into a muggle elevator–it makes her wonder about the ways in which they’ve had to acclimate during Draco’s hospital visit, if it was a painful process for them, to see how similar some things are between the two worlds. 

“I haven’t told him yet,” she says, breaking the silence. She fists the fabric of her sleeve into her palm. “I haven’t told him about who the donor is.” 

Lucius’ cane taps against the floor. When she turns towards him, he’s staring at the elevator, eyebrows furrowed. Narcissa squeezes the crook of his arm but says nothing. 

“It’s too soon,” Hermione continues. “I don’t want him to think about that yet.” 

The red digits slide, _4_ turns to _5._ Hermione inhales. “He should focus on recovering.” 

With a _ding_ , the brass doors open. Lucius steps forward without response, but Narcissa lingers behind a beat, turning towards Hermione as she says, very softly, “Thank you.” 

* * *

Hermione loses track of the days: time morphs, spidering across her. She blinks, and her hair is greasy again, her dark circles deeper, sunken in. “You could go in later today,” Ron says to her this morning. “Draco will be fine. He’ll have people with him. You could get some extra sleep.” 

She declines. She likes to spend the mornings with Draco, to be the first one there before the Malfoys come, before Pansy, Theo, and Blaise arrive. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass visit at one point, and she hates how ashamed she feels next to them, with their coiffed hair, the soft lilt of their voices, cooing: _Oh, you poor thing, Draco. And a muggle hospital, really?_

She’s home right now, just for an hour or two. Her luggage sits by the bed, next to a suitcase brimming with Draco’s clothes. Ron hands her folded sweaters as they sit side-by-side in the closet and decide on what, exactly, Draco would want to wear while at the manor. She doesn’t think of it as his home; she doesn’t want to give the Malfoys that much. 

“Are you sure you can do this? Move...there?”

“How long are you on sabbatical for?” Hermione places Draco’s socks underneath a layer of his sweaters, and she doesn’t look at Ron while she asks. She wants the utility of silence without resorting to it; she’s become very skilled at diverting a conversation from its target. 

“As long as you need me to be.”

Hermione feels a rush of affection for him, for the allowances he grants her. He must be angry, just as angry as Harry is, but he hasn’t said anything. It’s hard to reconcile the unflappable man he is now with the quick-tempered boy he was. The war changed him, and then the ministry trained him, but sometimes she wishes he would just yell at her. It would be a kindness, a demonstration that not all things had changed. 

“Will Ginny be stopping by today?” she asks.

“Yes. She says she’ll bring dinner.” 

“Have you spoken to Harry?”

“A few times.” Ron hands her an Oxford, but he doesn’t look at her. 

“He’s still angry, isn’t he?” 

For a few seconds, the only sound is Ron rustling through the shelves. She watches the ripples in his sweater as he moves. He stills, back towards her, arms outstretched as he places both hands on a wooden ledge in the closet. His neck is bowed. She can’t see from her vantage point, but she imagines his eyes are closed, chin pressed into his chest. “We’re all angry, Hermione.” 

She’s wrong. This is worse. She shouldn’t have said anything. Her chest aches, a hive of bees underneath her sternum. She freezes, shuts her eyes. There’s the sound of shifting fabric and then Ron touches her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–”

Shaking her head, she grips Draco’s cashmere sweater so hard she thinks she’ll leave a hole. “I know I made a mess of things.” She’s dripping, like a faucet, and she wipes her sleeve underneath her nose as her voice fractures. “I made _awful_ decisions, Ronald, but I tried. I really tried to fix things. I–” 

Ron shushes her, rubbing his hands across her shoulders. It reminds her of her father, of crawling into his hospital bed, how his voice brushed against the peach fuzz of her cheek. She’s crying so hard she can’t breathe. Y _ou can’t delay your emotions forever,_ Susan had told her once. She feels disgusting, crying in her ex-boyfriend’s arms while they sit in the closet she shares with her injured husband. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers, and it feels liberating to admit, for once, the truth. 

Ron places his hand on her forehead, sweeps down, pushing her hair back from the wet slick of her cheeks. “I know,” he says. 

* * *

Hermione’s thumb bleeds, smearing a red ribbon across the styrofoam cup. It’s Thursday, the day before Draco is to be discharged. There’s a levity in his hospital room. Even Lucius smiles once or twice, but Hermione’s anxiety roils around her stomach, pressing its contents against her throat. She digs her nail into the skin around her thumb every time someone mentions _manor._

A nurse is here to explain instructions for his recovery. “Who will be the primary caregiver for Mr. Malfoy?” 

Her hand shoots up, but when she looks around, she sees everyone’s hands are up. 

The nurse smiles. “Well, Mr. Malfoy, you’re quite the lucky man, aren’t you?” She moves towards him, reaching for the blanket tucked against him “The stoma really is the hardest part”–she starts to push up his gown and suddenly she’s tripping on the linoleum, pushed backwards; her sneakers _screech_ as she gasps and Draco barks, “Don’t touch me.”

Everyone stares. “Draco,” Hermione says. “Please–”

The nurse stands in the corner, brows furrowed. There’s a slight tremble in her fingers, but no one tries to comfort her. 

“Get out.” His voice is very low and very quiet, and when no one answers, he fists the sheets in his fingers and yells, “Leave.”

“Draco.” Narcissa moves towards him and a vein pulses in his jaw as he says, again, with such force Narcissa stops in her tracks, “Get the fuck out, right now.” 

In the hallway, Hermione hears Theo whisper _What just happened?_ A new nurse has to be summoned, the situation explained. Pansy tries to look through the window of the door, to see what prompted such a violent reaction, and Hermione’s voice is much stronger than she feels when she says, “Dont, Pansy. Just give him some privacy.” 

Later, as they’re leaving the hospital, Ron asks, “What’s a stoma?” and Hermione shakes her head. She doesn’t have the vocabulary for this.

* * *

The manor differs from how she remembers it to be. But memories are faulty. Hermione knows, for instance, that memory recall is never a perfect 1:1 retrieval. There are biases from the start. Objectivity is illusory. The process of recalling a memory is iterative: you pull the memory forth and must stabilize it again, leaving it at the mercy of further distortions. 

Whenever she passes the drawing room of the manor, sees the purple wallpaper, the crystals dangling from a new chandelier, Hermione repeats this mantra to herself: Bellatrix tortured her here, carved _Mudblood_ into her skin, but through remembering this, she has made it worse, infused it with remastered horror. If she can not think about it, the memory itself will begin to fade, drifting away until only its edges are visible. She can do this for Draco. She can force herself not to remember. 

Draco’s propped against a mound of forest-green pillows. She’s sitting on the edge of his bed and Narcissa and Lucius stand in front of him. They look like a diagram of a hospital visit, the _mis-en-scene_ of recovery: the patient, the wife, the parents. He looks young against the four-poster bed; a Slytherin tapestry hangs above him. She’s holding his hand, but his fingers fidget, like he wants to pull away. She hates that she wonders what girls have lain in this bed with him before.

“When is the healer coming tomorrow?” he asks.

Narcissa runs her fingers across his fringe. “Early, you should get some rest.” 

“Poppy can show Miss. Granger to her room.” Lucius says, turning to leave. Draco releases her fingers. 

“You cannot be serious, Father.” 

“Isn’t your bed a little small for two? Surely, Ms. Granger prioritizes her comfort as well?” 

“I don’t mind–” Hermione says.

“Surely, Ms. Granger would want you to have adequate rest as well, as part of your convalescence.”

At this, Hermione’s mouth shuts. She’s backed in a corner. This isn’t even her fight.

“Surely, Father, you recognize that arguing with you only raises my blood pressure. That is hardly conducive to my care.” 

There’s a beat. Lucius exhales. Narcissa sighs. Together, they leave. 

“Thank you,” Hermione says, but Draco has his eyes closed, head tilted up, a furrow between his brows. 

* * *

The manor halls echo. It makes her wonder what Draco’s childhood was like, what secrets he was acquainted with at too-young an age. Sound is constantly bouncing around the walls; there’s a strange sense of stillness even though there’s rarely true silence: the beat of steps, the crack of apparating house elves, the whisper of voices. 

_Draco, your mother and I would be amenable to removing the freeze on your trust, if you would consider...moving back, permanently._

_I’m sensing this generous offer also has stipulations._

_I’m sure you think Miss. Granger–_

Hermione presses herself against the wall near Lucius’ study. She evens her breathing, tries to stay very still and quiet.

_Hermione–_

_–but there many other eligible women–_

_For fuck’s sake–_

_Don’t curse, darling–_ Narcissa’s voice. 

There’s an ebb in the conversation, and she wonders if she’s been caught, if the sound of her breathing ricocheted into the room. 

_You can’t be serious._

_Draco, you have choices_ –

_Enough, father. She’s my wife, not a codicil._

Hermione rubs a hand on her chest. Her knees feel gelatinous. The voices die down to unintelligible whispers. She has become an interloper to her own life, but Draco is trying; that has to be enough. 

* * *

Lucius arcs his wand, passing the salt to Narcissa, who thanks him and then tilts it in Hermione’s direction, who shakes her head. Hermione drags her knife across her cut of steak, and Lucius sighs when the metal scrapes against her plate. “Sorry,” she says, but no one answers. 

Upstairs, Draco is in his room, with Tabitha. He hasn’t transitioned to eating solid foods yet. _Soon,_ Tabitha has said, _but you shouldn’t rush recovery_. It is, Hermione thinks, the most sensible thing anyone around here has said. 

Dinner finishes like it started, in silence, and Hermione makes her way to Draco’s room. She takes her time, loitering in the hallways, admiring the portraits lining them until they sneer at her and whisper _Mudblood_. She hopes to avoid Tabitha, but as she nears the door to Draco's room, she hears a volley of voices. 

_Just close it,_ Draco says. _Just close the fucking thing._

 _Mr. Malfoy, if we close the stoma too early, you could become septic. Your viscera needs to heal_.

_You told me this wasn’t permanent. You said you would get rid of it._

_It isn’t permanent, but it’s a safety measure, while your–_

_I don’t care. What kind of healer are you if you’re okay with keeping me disfigured? It’s_ _unsanitary._

Outside his door, Hermione leans against the wall, tries to breathe through the panic in her chest. She can’t push away the images of _septic_ , all the inflammation, the rush of white blood cells, the blush of fever. Inside of Draco, an uprising. 

Tabitha leaves the room in a huff, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. She nods at Hermione, who pauses for a beat before she enters the room. Draco’s sitting up in bed, the blanket pulled up to his chest. If she squints, she can see the outline of the ostomy bag, but he’s never let her see it. Every morning, in the early dawn, she hears him getting dressed in the dark, light sparking from his wand as he summons his clothes. The lengths of concealment they both undertake; the ways in which they continue to hide from each other. 

“Draco,” she says. She twists her hands together, swallows around the lump in her throat. “The stoma isn’t forever, but you shouldn’t–”

He keeps his gaze fixed on the wall across from him. His voice is sharp and cold, like steel, and he fists the duvets as he answers. “Hermione,” he says, “don’t.”

* * *

“He’s still weak, Harry,” she whispers. “I need some more time.” She’s bent over the hearth, hair dangerously close to the fire outlining Harry’s face. 

“You don’t have any more time.” Embers jump from the logs, obscuring Harry’s expression, but even through the sparks she can see the hard line of his mouth. “You were supposed to let Cadric know right after he woke up.”

“I was _busy._ What do you suppose I should have done?” 

“Do you really want to know what I think you should have done? Do you want me to list out all the things you shouldn’t have done?”

Harry closes his eyes. “Sorry,” he says. “I–”

“You can’t bring Cadric here,” she says. “Draco’s not healed enough to handle an interrogation.”

“My hands are tied, Hermione. You made a deal–”

“ _You_ made a deal.”

“I did that for you, to keep you from–for Merlin’s sake, Hermione. Do you still not realize the extent of what you’ve done? I’ve been cleaning up your mess all month. Do you know what the _Daily Prophet_ wanted to print?” He exhales with such force sparks flare and leap onto her jeans. 

She slaps her palm down on her thigh, snuffing out the embers, pretending the heat is what makes her eyes sting. 

“Well, I apologize that our friendship is such a burden.” Her response is childish, but still better than what she wants to say _where have you been?_ This is the first time he’s even floo-ed since–

“This is much larger than you now, Hermione. There are consequences to what you–”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t live with my consequences?”

“I think you need to take responsibility for your actions.” 

They stare at one another. Hermione digs her nails into her palm. Harry blinks, his mouth see-sawing open and closed. Finally, he says,“Tell Draco to be prepared on Tuesday. I’ll be there, with Cadric.” With a _whoosh_ he’s gone, leaving Hermione to stare the flames. 

* * *

She can tell he’s not asleep from his twitching fingers, but the way he tries to force his breathing into a rhythm means he must be feigning sleep. She’s laying less than a foot away from him, but he feels far away and unknowable, a phantom of a dream. Maybe he can sense that she wants to talk about something. Maybe he’s just as desperate to avoid it. 

“Draco,” she says, her voice thin and soft. When he doesn’t answer, she skims her fingers across his shoulder, waiting until he opens his eyes. 

“Were you sleeping?” she asks, and her ears burn at her idiocy.

She expects a barbed retort, something speckled with sarcasm–maybe that’s why she asked such a stupid question. Instead, he sounds resigned as he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“I have to tell you something.” A swath of moonlight leaks into the room, illuminating the vials of potions lined up neatly on his dresser. She focuses on the jewel-toned vials as she speaks. “Cadric is coming tomorrow.”

“Who?” 

“The scientist, from–” she wants to say, _before your accident_ , but she can’t get the words out and ends up with “before.” 

“You’ll have to be more specific, Hermione.” Irritation now flecks his voice. 

“He’s the one I got the research from, for the potion. The one I”–she swallows–“obliviated.” 

“ _What_?” Draco shifts, drawing his leg out from under the covers. She forgot; he doesn’t know this yet. “Is he pressing charges?”

“No.” Her mouth feels dry and sour. “It’s a long story, but he wants to speak to you.” 

“About?”

“He wants to know about the plant, what you were able to find.” 

Draco digs his pointer and middle finger into his forehead, closing his eyes, like he’s in pain. “Can’t this wait until later? I didn’t find anything. I can barely remember most of the trip.” 

“I–” Her shame crawls up, tunneling into her abdomen, climbing the ladder of her ribs, sliding along the curve of her neck until it’s in her mouth, choking the words out. She’s supposed to be taking care of him, but she has to ask him to do this one last thing for her. She doesn’t need anyone to take care of her, she always says, but everyone in her life is left cleaning up her messes. “He said he would drop the charges if I returned the research and if you...if he had the chance to speak to you, when you woke up.” 

Silence. There’s a small, perverse part of her that hopes he says no, that he leaves her to her consequences, but she knows he would never do that to her. She’s always known this about him, that there are limits to the cruelty he practices; he’s always known his boundaries. It’s one of the reasons she loves him. Sometimes, she’s not sure she recognizes her own. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll tell him what happened.”

“Thank you,” she says, and she reaches for him, but her fingers graze thin air. He’s already turned away.

* * *

“We’ll have guests visiting tomorrow,” Draco says.

Narcissa shifts in the loveseat, placing the teacup delicately back on its plate. “Friends?”

Hermione looks down, watches the sugar cube disintegrate in her tea, like snowfall. 

“Old friends,” Draco says, after a pause. “We’ll be in the conservatory, and I’d appreciate some privacy.” His words are firm, but his tone is light. 

Narcissa nods, and when she reaches over to touch his shoulder, he doesn’t pull back. 

* * *

Hermione floats in the tub, surrounded by bubbles that slide over her body, coating her in the scent of roses. The ceiling of Draco’s bathroom is charmed to show the night sky, and she’s staring at the curve of his constellation as her fingers prune. 

Today: March 27, her father’s birthday. She hadn’t remembered until her wand buzzed with the notification: _call Dad._ Why hadn’t she gotten rid of that reminder? There’s a deluge of tasks that she’s pushed off: her parents’ funerals, their wills, their house. She doesn’t let herself think about this during the day, but here, suspended in the water, the thoughts rush through her. 

If this were a book, she thinks, no one would believe the plot. A laugh bubbles out of her, and then she can’t stop and there’s salt in her nose and a watery film in her eyes and she has to dip her head under the water and bite down on her fist. 

* * *

She tracks his movements in the bathroom, noting the way he has to pause after brushing his teeth, the slight inhale as he presses his palm over his abdomen. Hunching over hurts him, but he won’t take any more pain potions. 

“I–”

His glare reflects through the mirror; he hates when she frets over him. 

She busies herself with brushing her own teeth, and after she spits the foam in the sink, she looks in the mirror to find his scrutiny. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Panic drills into her. Who told him about the organ donation? He hasn’t spent much time with his friends. He’s been avoiding everyone. Was it Narcissa? Lucius? Would they want to hurt their own son that way? 

“You have to tell me exactly what I should say to Cadric to avoid making this worse.”

Oh, _oh_. Relief snakes up her spine, makes her relax her shoulders in a way that must seem at odds with the subject matter. This, she can handle. His disappointment on this subject, she can navigate. She’s picking her battles very carefully. 

She turns to face him, cocking her hip against the counter. “You should tell him the truth,” she says. “You didn’t find the plant, right?” 

His eyebrows furrow, and he sticks the toothbrush into the holder with force. “Right,” he says. “I failed at that.”

She’s said the wrong thing. He starts to walk away and she’s desperate not to end the night like this. “Draco,” she says. He’s silhouetted against the door, grasping the casing of the frame. His neck is tilted to the right, face half turned towards her. She can sense his impatience from the rigid grip of his fingers. She licks her lips. “Goodnight,” she says. He nods, and then, as he leaves, she says, very quietly, “I love you,” and she doesn’t expect him to hear or respond, but a part of her hopes that he knows what she means, that he’s always known what she lacked the bravery to say. 

* * *

There’s tea in front of them, courtesy of Poppy. Biscuits too, the rectangle chocolate ones that remind her of summer camping trips. Cadric has two on his plate. Crumbs cling to the wiry hairs of his mustache and Hermione feels nauseous as they waterfall down his shirt when he speaks.

“Hermione, I see your husband has recovered.”

“Recovering,” she murmurs and regrets it immediately when Draco’s shoulders tense. 

“Well, regardless, I believe we have some unfinished business, no?” 

She looks to Harry, who looks away. 

Cadric leans forward. “Mr. Malfoy,” he says, extending his arm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Cadric.” 

Draco doesn’t move, and after a beat, Cadric drops his hand. “I’ll keep this short, but all I really want to know is: did you manage to at least see what the plant looks like? I heard you failed to retrieve–”

“That’s not what I said.”

Cadric turns to her. “So he did retrieve it?”

“No, no. I just mean, I never used the word fail.”

He stares at her like she’s an insect buzzing near his shoulder. “Right, well, forgive my semantics, but Mr. Malfoy, let’s focus on the task at hand. Did you? Did you see it?” 

Draco exhales. “No.”

“Did you follow the map? The one I included in my research?”

“Yes, but...I didn’t find it.” 

Two dashes of color have appeared on Cadric’s cheeks. “I spent years tracking the plant. I had it marked perfectly. You must have done it wrong, followed a wrong lead–”

“Cadric”–Harry starts to rise from his seat–“he clearly doesn’t–”

“Then what is the point? What was the point of all this?” Cadric inhales, and then bites down, the veins in his neck distending. “At least, tell me what the trip was like, Mr. Malfoy. You can, at least, give me that?” 

Draco shifts; his sweater is loose and baggy, a stark contrast to the fitted cashmeres he usually wears. He’s altered everything she packed for him, a sartorial choice she knows is more about concealment than style.

“I don’t remember much,” he finally says. “The weather was erratic. Rain and then sleet before bursts of sun that left me overheated. The visibility during the day was–”

“This is lovely, Mr. Malfoy, but surely you did more than suffer the weather during your trip?”

Draco’s nostrils flare, and he pushes his teacup away. “It was disorienting, the forests. The deeper in I went, the–it wasn’t just the thick vegetation. There was something... _dark_ about the forest, like a force or–”

“Magic,” Cadric breathes. His eyes are wide, mouth parted in interest. “There’s supposedly a barrier deep in the forest, a kind of protection for the _Astragalus remedium_. Blood magic.” Cadric’s speaks with rabid intensity, and his mouth curls as he continues. “I’ve read about it. A way to protect such a powerful plant, but there’s no record of who did it.”

“I kept getting lost. I would walk down a path, but pass the same trees each time. I marked them. I was walking in circle, but I couldn’t–”

“Spellwork,” Cadric shouts, leaning forward. “It must have been a spell, some type of concealment charm, for disorientation, to keep the plant’s location hidden–”

“I never found it,” Draco says, his voice rising as well. “I just walked in circles and circles, growing more and more disoriented. And then, I–” he stops, eyebrows furrowing as he looks down at the table. “And then I was bleeding, on the ground.” 

“You _idiot_. You were already there. You were so close to the plant. Didn’t you recognize that it must have been a spell? Didn’t you think something was off–”

“It wasn’t–I don’t remember...If I had more time to prepare–” Draco inhales.

Her fingers tingle, an ache building in her chest. “Enough,” Hermione said. “That’s enough. You need to leave now.” The certainty in her voice is a surprise. Where has it been all this time?

“But–”

“Draco told you what he knows.” She reaches for Draco’s hand, and he doesn’t pull away, but his fingers are limp in hers. “There’s nothing else to say.” 

For a few beats, no one says anything. Suddenly, Cadric shifts, leaning in close to Hermione. “You ruined it.” His eyes are wide, the pupils dilated. “You stole my work, and look what happened. All my years of research _wasted_ like that. Your husband almost died, and it was all a failure–”

“Cadric, you’re finished.” Harry grasps the other man’s shoulders, but Cadric twists away violently, the buckle of his jacket hitting the side table. “You got the chance to speak with him. It’s _done_.” 

“You’ve ruined everything. Look what you’ve done–”

The air rushes out of her. She digs her nails into the loveseat. The world tilts, vertigo engulfing her. There’s a series of staccato shouts, the _whoosh_ of the floo. She can’t breathe. She’s hunched over, cradling her forehead in her palms. 

She feels the pressure of Draco’s palm on her back. It pains her to think he’s worrying about her right now when he must be in pain. “Draco,” she says. His movements still, but he keeps his hand on her shoulder. She licks her lips, presses her tongue against her molars. Her cheek is smashed against her fingers, and the words come out muffled. “I need to tell you something.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Please stop saying that.” The moment is a blister, and her nail is poised above, flirting. If she punctures the sac, the wound will either heal or fester. “You’re angry, Draco. You can say that you’re angry.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool) and [Endless_musings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endless_musings/pseuds/Endless_musings/works)
> 
> I have so much love for my team. They are really, truly, amazing.

Her hands are interlaced at the base of her neck, and she’s hunched over, elbows pitched against the table. She turns her head, eyes finding his. A vein pulses under his eye. There’s only a small distance between them, but the words get lost. She never has the right words for him. 

“When Dad died...” she starts, and then her voice peters off. 

He stares at her, mouth parted in confusion. He already knows this, has seen her face dissolve as she spoke about her father’s death. She knows what she needs to say, except she can’t get her tongue to form the thoughts. 

“Draco, I–”

She pushes her palms against her eyelids until the insides are dappled with color. “Dad was an organ donor,” she says. She hesitates over the next words. “And you needed a transplant.” 

He inhales. Her eyes are still closed, afraid to break whatever momentum she’s grasping. “As soon as he was a match, I knew what I had to do. Before that, even. I–Draco.” She drops her hands onto the table; she can barely see him through the smear of tears. “I took him off life support, and they did the surgery. You needed the organ, and–”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

“I didn’t want you to worry. You needed to focus on recovering.”

“That wasn’t your choice to make.” His voice is low and strained. Lines crack against the leather from where his fingers grip the armrest. “You should have told me. Hermione, it’s been _weeks_.”

She flinches. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

“So you lied to me instead? You just let me believe the donor was a stranger–”

“I never said that.” It’s a stupid point she fixates on, semantics. But she’s taken on so many roles already, she doesn’t want to add _liar_ to the list. She hears her mother’s voice in her head: _A lie of omission is a lie, Hermione,_ and she squeezes her eyes shut to disappear the words. 

“Right. You just conveniently forget to tell me. How can you even look at me, Hermione? How can you…” he trails offs.

“It wasn’t ever really a choice, Draco. I would have done anything for you.” 

He rises, arms crossed as he walks towards the window. His face is half-turned towards her when he speaks. “Not a choice. As in, forced. You felt forced into a decision.”

“What? No, that’s not–”

“You’ll resent me, for the rest of our lives–”

“Draco, that’s not what I meant.” Panic presses into her, and she digs her finger into the splintered skin of her thumb. “I would never–”

“But you _will_ , Hermione. For fuck’s sake. Every time you look at me, you’ll think of him. How could you not?” 

“Draco, I love you.” It’s wrong, all of this. Her declaration sounds like an excuse. 

He leans a shoulder against the window frame. His heavy breaths are the only noise in the room. She’s staring at the pink flush crawling up his neck when he next speaks. 

“I promised your father I would look after you, Hermione.” The syllables crack, and he clears his throat. “All I ever wanted was to support you, to lessen your burden, and now I’ve become a charity case for you.” 

“Draco, I don’t think of you as–”

“Look at me,” he yells, pulling at his sweater until the fabric outlines the ostomy bag. There’s a frantic, desperate quality to his words. “There’s a fucking _hole_ in me.” 

“Draco, this is what marriage is, taking care of each other.”

“Then tell me how I can be a husband to you.” Redness mottles his neck. “Tell me how to be a husband to you, because I don’t know how.” 

“Just talk to me.” Her voice pitches upwards, the edges laced with frustration. There’s a lower plead to it as well. “Tell me how you feel, what you feel. Don’t hide from me. Don’t go behind my back and make decisions. _Merlin_ , Draco.” She doesn’t want to do this; she doesn’t want to bring this up, but now it’s out there, and she can’t stop. “The money, France, Tabitha. Why didn’t you tell me anything? I’m your _wife_ , not a child. You should have discussed this with me. You should have told me. Instead, I found out from Theo.” 

“I should have told you? I should have discussed.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving deep grooves in the pomade. “When? When should I have spoken to you? You were barely around. You could barely talk to me. I wanted to prove, once and for all, that I could _do_ something for you. That’s why I went to Patagonia, but I couldn’t even–”

“You’ve never needed to prove anything. All I ever wanted is for you to love me, Draco.” 

“I have. And look at what it’s done to me,” he yells, and then his mouth snaps shut, eyes widening.

She’s so stunned that she can only stand there. Rigidly, he sits down on the window seat and stares at his fingers, like he’ll find the words there. He’s hunched over, forming a question mark with his spine. As she walks closer, his shoulders hiccup, and when he looks at her, there are tracks of silver on his face. “I didn’t mean that.” 

She sits next to him, heart vibrating in her throat. His shoulders shake, and she presses a palm between them, like he’s done for her so many times. He lets out a strange, strangled sound and folds his torso into her lap, hands gripping her knees. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, the words collapsing on themselves between breaths. 

Their unwieldy conversation has tumbled over a cliff. She’s staring at the smoking remains, shattered, at the bottom of a ravine.

“I think you do mean that, Draco.” There is no malice in her words. “And it’s okay.” He soaks into her jeans, and she slopes her hand down his spine, feeling the soft cashmere. She stares out the conservatory window, watching how the panes fracture light into a rainbow. Vaguely, she notices a wetness on her chin. When looks down, she sees she’s dripping onto the back of Draco’s neck. 

* * *

They’re lying next to each other. She’s never seen Draco like that, the way he curled into her, devastated by guilt. They’ve been quiet all evening. Before bed, she approached and he shrunk away, lips flattening, like he worried what his words would do.

Now, she turns toward him, and he’s looking up at the ceiling. “Draco, we should talk.” 

His mouth twitches, but he continues to stare up, chest rising in even, long breaths. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“Draco, please look at me.” 

He turns, shifting onto his side. His eyes are still red-rimmed. “I’m sorry.”

“Please stop saying that.” The moment is a blister, and her nail is poised above, flirting. If she punctures the sac, the wound will either heal or fester. “You’re angry, Draco. You can say that you’re angry.”

“I can’t be angry with you.” He fists the duvet and then releases. “I don’t want to be angry with you.” 

“You deserve to be angry.”

“How can I be angry after what–Hermione, you did something _unimaginable_ for me. I wanted to help you, and I couldn’t even do that.”

“You almost died for me, Draco. I’d say the scales are more than–”

“No, _no_ , that’s where you’re wrong.” His voice shifts, frustration rising over the swell of remorse. “Things have never been equal between us. My whole life, I’ve owed people. My parents, for the _privilege_ of my childhood. Snape, for sparing me the–and you, Hermione, for choosing me. Do you think I don’t see how your friends treat us? Nobody in your life thinks I deserve you. Not even Cadric thinks I’m capable.”

Where was this coming from? “Draco, I don’t care what other people think.”

“I _care_.” He sits up, pulling the duvet tight to cover his abdomen. “The war ended years ago, but I am still a leper. Merlin, Hermione. Do you have any idea what that’s like? I was a child, and people condemned me like a man, and now I’m a man, and people only see a Death Eater–”

“That’s not true. You fought on our side. We–”

“But no one _cares_ , Hermione. Things were different in Australia. No one knew who I was there, but then we returned to London. We got married, but I couldn’t provide anything. I had no trust, no money. No one would hire me.” His voice flattens, the hills and valleys of inflection crumbling. “I couldn’t even start a business. No one wanted to work with me.” 

Her mouth is dry, and her words come out horse and unsteady. “Is that why you didn’t tell me about the firm?” 

“My cultural castration is humiliating.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way?”

“You never asked.” His voice is a thin, cold blade. “I didn’t think you had time to care.” He closes his eyes. His voice softens. “I just mean, you were busy.” 

“I’m here now,” she says. “Tell me how to help you.”

He shifts, gazing out the window. She stares at the whorl of his ear, eyes tracing the delicate spirals, like maybe she can transfer her words into him this way. 

“I don’t want to be angry, because I know you tried your best. You saved my life. I–But maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know how to navigate a marriage where I am always indebted.”

“Draco, please tell me how to fix this.” She shifts towards him, sliding her hand along his shoulder until it reaches the bones of his clavicle. Her chin is parallel with his neck. He inhales and her forearm raises with his breath. 

Reaching up, he curls his hands against hers. They stay like that for a moment. She’s waiting for him to turn and face her. But then, gently, he loosens her fingers and drops her palm onto the mattress. 

“I just need time, Hermione. I need you to give me some time.” 

He lays down, face disappearing as he turns. She’s left staring at the back of his t-shirt. There’s a hot coal in her mouth, melting all the tissue. Saliva mixes with the metallic taste of blood. She sits there, swallowing air, trying to breath through the pain. Later, after Draco has fallen asleep, she slides her fingers against her tongue, feeling the dips from where she’s bitten through. 

* * *

When she wakes up, she reaches over, on instinct. Draco’s side is still warm, the bedsheets rumpled with sleep, but he’s already gone. She sees him in flashes throughout the week. Her husband haunts her: he shrinks into the shadow of the corridors, retires to bed late to avoid a conversation. 

Time is meaningless in this purgatory. Activities bleed into each other, one long swath of red: breakfast, solitude, dinner, sleep. She thinks of the melting clocks again, all the time, hemorrhaging. Evaporating. Once you lose time, you can’t ever gain it back. Once you know something, you can never unknow it. 

One afternoon, voices cascade from the conservatory, and Hermione’s feet bring her there before she’s planned out her words. Pansy, Theo, and Blaise sit around Draco, and they’re smiling. She can’t see Draco’s face, but he’s turned towards Pansy, whose head is rocking up and down, lips pulled wide. 

Blaise spots her first, and he stands up. “Granger,” he says. Theo stands next, and after a beat, Pansy follows. 

Draco turns to look at her, his expression blank. “Hermione,” he says. “They stopped by to visit.” 

“Would you like to join us?” Blaise asks. His voice is warm and welcoming. She remembers the crumbs of kindness he offered her in the hospital, which weren’t much, but enough that she won’t forget.

“We’re drinking Earl Grey,” Theo says. Her favorite, he knows. His expression is inscrutable, but his posture is devoid of the hostility from their past encounters. “Pansy also brought some macaroons, from France.” 

They stare at her. She tugs at the bottom of her shirt, embarrassed at the toothpaste stain there. “Thank you,” she says, “but I have to take care of some things.” 

“Cryptic,” Theo says. “A secret mission?” His mouth quirks up, and she can see now that he’s trying, but she’s not ready to accept his olive branch yet. 

The dynamics in the room are off-kilter. It’s Draco, she realizes. He doesn’t seem particularly happy to see them. He seems resigned, the same way he looks at her sometimes. The other three are compensating. She can see it in their posture, the way they keep leaning towards him. 

“I have to go to my parent’s house, to pack up their–” she stops, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The mood in the room sinks, and Pansy looks down at her hands. 

“Do you need me to come with you?” Draco asks, but his tone is flat and automatic, like he’s reading from a script. She shakes her head in rapid jerks; her brain feels tender and bruised. 

“No, please don’t.” She swallows. “You should enjoy time with your friends. It looks like you’re having a good conversation.” The words sound more bitter than she intends, and she knots her hands together before turning away, unsure of how to salvage this moment. 

“Hermione,” he says, and she almost pauses, but a whispering starts in the room, and Draco only calls her name once. 

* * *

She runs her fingers along the craftsman door panels before sliding her key into the lock. The welcome rug reads “The Grangers.” It feels profane to scuff her soles on the lettering before she enters, careful about tracking in any dirt.

The stink slams into her, short-circuiting her other senses, making her eyes water. In the kitchen, bananas hang from a silver hook, and tiny, black gnats crowd the lines of their mottled, oozing skin. When she opens the fridge, she sees a chunk of cheese disfigured by moulding circles; sunken-in apricots with bits of rotting skin; blackened strawberries attached to wilting stems. 

She busies herself with tossing everything into a trash bag, ignoring her wand. There is catharsis to be found in manual labor, or, at the very least, distraction. She scrubs the counters, flecks of grease jumping onto her coat. The sinks glistens by the time she’s done. Standing there, she grips the kitchen countertops, shoulders hunched towards her ears. 

The dinner table is covered in a fine, grey mist, and she dribbles her fingers against its surface, marking her presence. Her parent’s home is a museum, a curation of artifacts that brutalizes her as she enters the living room, squinting at the photographs on the mantel. The remote balances at the edge of the coffee table, like it had been tossed there. 

She shouldn’t have put this off for so long, but she’s not sure where to start. She’ll have to box up her parent’s lives, sort some of it into storage, throw away the rest. The task feels impossible when every item is a portal into another memory; memory is all she has left. 

The stairs creak in rhythm to her steps. At the top, she pauses; her parent’s bedroom door is ajar, and she can see the unmade bed, an anomaly for them. Their phone call had come early in the morning. Her father had described the A&E visit as a precaution. _I’m sure we’ll be back by night,_ he had said, even when mum couldn’t get out of bed. 

She sits down on the step, perches her elbows on her knees. 

Their morning hadn’t gone as planned: routine disrupted, items displaced. There are clothes strewn on their bedroom floor, a pair of socks wilting on top of her mother’s nightgown. 

There’s a burn in her throat, the familiar prick in her eyes. 

She imagines her mother’s face, the look she probably cast over her shoulder before leaving the room. Her mother hated mess. She would have wanted to hang up her nightgown, iron out its silk wrinkles. 

The pressure in Hermione’s throat grows; she jams her knuckle into her forehead. If she starts, she won’t stop. There are things that need to be done. She can have time, later, to break apart. 

Through the balusters of the stairs, she sees father’s blue poplin pajamas. He loved that set; she should have come back and packed it for him. There were always more important things to do. She hadn’t been able to enter their room. 

She’s ten-feet from the door, just a couple of steps. She could pick up the clothes, fold back the duvet, restore order the way her parents would have wanted. They way they had taught her to. _Make your bed first thing in the morning_ her mother used to say. _It sets the tone for the rest of the day_. 

The years seem insurmountable then: all the milestones she’ll live through without them. She’s most frightened by what she’ll continue to forget, what will dissolve with the ravages of time: her mother’s eyes, her father’s laugh, how she used to sit between them on the couch, her feet in her father’s lap while her mother palmed her curls. She can imagine a day, years from now, waking up to white gaps inhabiting the neural spaces where her parents used to live. She can imagine their faces, blotted out, the edges charred, like a cigarette burn on a photograph. 

They had thought they would come home, have time to tidy up; they never did. 

* * *

Returning from her parents’ house to the manor heightens the stark reality of her life. She feels like a phantom, able to flit through life, unnoticed, unwanted. After a silent dinner, she retires to a stone pavilion in the manor gardens. She thinks of this place as her haven; she’s never seen anyone else here. It’s the only place she feels she can breathe in the whole manor. 

Rain drizzles down, but Hermione doesn’t bother to cast a repellant charm. The front of her shirt darkens from the mist. She watches the watermark elongate, sinking into the bite of cold. 

“It’s dreadful weather, isn’t it?”

Hermione startles. Narcissa stands by the stone columns. She looks past her, to the rain-slicked grass. There’s not a trace of dirt or wetness on Narcissa’s ivory gown. The matriarch walks towards Hermione and sits on the stone bench, smoothing the creases in her dress. 

“You’ve found my little alcove,” Narcissa says.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize–”

Narcissa smiles, the dip in her cupids bow stretching out. Draco’s mouth is a perfect replica of hers. “No, not at all. I’m glad you’ve found it. It doesn’t get much use anymore. I had it built, actually, for Draco.”

“Oh.” 

“Has he retired for the night?”

Hermione nods. 

“A pity, that he’s not out here with you. He loves the rain, you know. As a child, his favorite pastime was flying in the rain. He’d come back into the house, muddy, with this ridiculous grin on his face–”

The image makes Hermione smile.

“It drove Lucius crazy–”

The smile drops.

“They would have these awful fights. Not just about that, but many other things. Lucius can have quite the temper, though perhaps you’ve seen it in Draco as well.”

Hermione’s heart beats a fast, heavy rhythm in her chest. Narcissa sounds almost wistful. 

“Lucius was strict, much sterner than I. There were certain values he tried to ingrain. Dignity. Honor. Respectability. Responsibility. I think sometimes Draco must have felt the world on his shoulders.” She glances at Hermione. “Were your parents strict, Hermione?”

“No, they weren’t.”

The older woman smiles. “Something to think about then, when you two have children.”

This entire conversation is so ridiculous that it takes a second for Hermione to realize what Narcissa has just proposed: a degradation of the Malfoy line. Surely–

“I don’t always agree with Lucius. But I’ve always seen him for who he is. And, for better or worse, I love him.” 

Hermione has exhausted her responses. She stares at the cracks splintering across the stone floor. 

“I don’t expect you to understand what our family was like, but we do love Draco. It is painful to see him so miserable.” 

Hermione wants to laugh then. “You think I make him miserable? Is that the implication?”

“I think whatever you two are doing right now makes you both miserable.” 

Laughter tickles her throat, like carbonation. She wonders what the other woman thinks of her: the orphan hiding in the garden. 

“As a mother, what is most important to me, above all else, is that Draco has someone who sees him, exactly as he is. Who loves him, exactly for who and what he is. Can you do that, Hermione?” 

The tips of her ears burn. She feels like a schoolgirl being scolded by a teacher. “I always have,” she says. “But I don’t know how to make this right.” 

“It’s a pity that we think about the world in these terms, good or bad. Wrong or right.” Narcissa lips quirk up, the precursor to a true smile. “It would be far more productive to consider truthful and untruthful. I don’t presume you’ll heed my marital advice, but I’ve always considered honesty the value a marriage both fears and cannot survive without.” 

“I thought you would be happy to see my marriage fail. I thought that’s what you and your husband would have wanted.” 

Narcissa’s mouth puckers, and Hermione regrets the words immediately. She can tell the other woman is trying to be kind.

“I want Draco to be happy. I’m less concerned with the means of how.” 

“He won’t speak to me.”

It feels worse, to admit this out loud. She had kept it a secret in her mind, where it wouldn’t hurt as much. And now here it was, floating in the space between them. 

“My son is a prideful man. It’s a casualty of being a Malfoy.” 

“I’m not sure how to start.” 

“Then you’re thinking too hard.” 

She opens to her mouth to respond, and Narcissa rises. “It’s late,” she says. “We should head back. You look like you’re freezing.”

* * *

The library is dark, but Hermione doesn’t want to announce her presence yet. Instead, she waits for her eyes to adjust, making her way gingerly between the rows, looking for a leak of light. She finds Draco in the very back, settled in an armchair he must have dragged near the window. He’s wearing reading glasses, face illuminated by the glow of the hearth.

He looks up as she approaches. She’s holding the leather notebook. 

“Hermione,” he says; his eyebrows furrow. “Is that my notebook?”

She shakes her head. “It’s mine.”

“You’ve seen Susan recently?” 

“No, that’s not why I have it.” 

He stares at her, waiting, and a part of her wants to back out, eject herself from this conversation. She had planned a speech, revised it in her journal, and then torn it out. He would find the ripped edges in there. She didn’t need a speech to tell him what she wanted to say. All she needed was bravery. 

“I said I would give you time–”

His lips thin, weariness spreading across his features. 

“And I will give you all the time you need–” 

The weariness drops away, confusion taking its stead. 

“But there are some things you should know first.” 

She clears her throat. Maybe she’s making this more dramatic than it needs to be, but these are all her cards. Her defenses are depleted. 

“I am so sorry.” she says. “I will be sorry for the rest of my life for all the ways in which we lost each other. I never wanted to lose you. I wanted to forget so many things, but never you.” 

Her voice starts to shake then, and she imagines his hand on her back, his voice ghosting across the shell of her ear: _Breathe, Hermione_.

“I know I did awful things. I am so ashamed that I can barely _breathe_ . But Draco, you also stopped talking to me. I know I wasn’t there often, but when I was, I could never tell what you were thinking. I could never tell if you even _wanted_ me around. I couldn’t see past the onslaught of my grief, and I know that’s my fault, but it was just so difficult.” 

There’s a lake at the bottom of her vision, and the water wobbles until she has to inhale and look up. “You think you’re indebted because I chose you over my father. You think that was my impossible choice, but it wasn’t. Draco, he was going to die. Do you really think I didn’t know that? I’m the brightest witch of my age. Of _course_ I knew that.” 

She lets out a laugh then, but it’s only a short, sharp one. “I knew, as soon as my mum died, but I couldn’t just stop trying, because then I would have given up on him. What I did to Cadric, I–” There is a hole in the center of her chest, where all the oxygen has escaped. Her shoulders hunch, like she’s deflating. “But how could I give up on trying to help my father? I don’t give up on the people that I love. I don’t know how, so maybe I did make a decision, to say goodbye to him rather than you, but life is full of decisions, Draco.” 

There’s snot dripping down her face. She grabs her collar and presses the fabric under her nose, tries to calm her breathing. 

“Hermione–”

“No, please don’t. Please just let me get this out in one piece.” 

She exhales, a small, strained noise that sounds like choking. “I want to make this work with you. I love you, all of you, for who you are, but you have a decision to make, too. You have to decide if this life, with me, is still what you want. And if it no longer is, that’s okay.” The syllables splinter, a mountain pitched between _oh_ and _kay_. 

“You don’t owe me, Draco. And if you can’t stay in this marriage anymore, that’s okay.” She tries to smile; her lip trembles. “As long as you are on this earth, alive, I will be fine.” 

She blinks, and the blurry film in her vision clears for a second before it liquifies again. “We’ve spent a lot of time worrying about each other, and now I want you to worry about yourself, and trust that I will be just fine.” 

He hasn’t moved a muscle. His eyes are wide with surprise.

“You don’t have to say anything right now, but you should read this.” She holds out the notebook, and he frowns. Her fingers graze his, and she wants to linger in this moment, just in case it’s the last time he touches her. “Take as long as you need, Draco.” 

Forcing her feet forward, she turns to leave. Narcissa had only been half-right. She could say all she wanted to Draco, but she couldn’t make him stay with her or love her any more than she could resurrect her parents, or undo the war. There wasn’t enough magic in the world for all that she wanted to fix. So this was the last thing she could give him, the only thing she had left: time. 

* * *

The hydrangeas have wilted, and Hermione takes a moment to run her hand along their mottled, brown petals. She has forgotten to water them. What an apt metaphor, she thinks, and she smiles despite herself. She looks at their red door, the beige welcome mat, the stone planters flanking the entryway; all the accoutrements of the life she and Draco had tried to build together. 

The house is quiet and dark. She’s not sure why she’s here, but there’s nowhere else she belongs. Crookshanks is with Molly and Arthur, and as Hermione enters the foyer, she wishes he were here, soft fur butting against her ankles. Outside the window, dusk flirts with the landscape, and she trails her finger along the wall as she makes her way upstairs. In the bedroom, she pauses for a moment. The bed is pristine, untouched. She walks to Draco’s side. The surface of his bedside table is clear; he hates any barriers preventing clear access to his wand, but inside the drawer, there are stacks of books: Nabakov, Dostovesky, Pasternak, a selection of the authors she’s recommended. Behind them, there’s his own leather notebook, and she considers it, but she doesn’t; she slides closed the drawer instead. 

She sits on the bed and scrutinizes their bedroom, without Draco. If she focuses, she can almost hear the sound of his footsteps, making his way around the room, opening the closet, the sound of his clothes hitting the floor, the feel of his hand on her neck. She leans back, sinking into his pillows. Her skin thrums as she traces the stitching of the pillowcase. Her eyelids droop, obscuring some of the room. She wonders where Draco is, if he’s sitting in the library, poring through her pages. She feels a small sense of relief, of unburdening. No matter what, she had told him her truth. She could live with that, even if it meant she did it alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have the update up soon. I promise! 
> 
> Recommended reading: 
> 
> "The Conditional" by Ada Limon, a beautiful poem. I'll leave the thematic connections up to you :) 
> 
> "poem on my fortieth birthday to my mother who died young" by Lucille Clifton


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How did you know I’d be here?”_
> 
> _“You act like I don’t know you, Hermione Granger.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I posted a very long A/N on Tumblr, so I'll keep this short & sweet. Today is my 24th birthday, and I can think of no better way to celebrate than to conclude this story, with all my wonderful friends. I've been so blessed to join this fandom and to have interacted with so many incredible people. Thank you to every single person who read, left kudos, commented, or engaged with this story in any way. All of you have my heart. 
> 
> Massive shoutout to my awesome alpha / betas & friends: [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/pseuds/mightbewriting) & [pargcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargcool) and [Endless_musings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endless_musings/pseuds/Endless_musings/works)
> 
> I owe each of them so much. They're really, truly, the best friends a gal could ask for.

Hermione feels the bed dip, and she squeezes her eyes shut tighter, trying to stay in this dream. There’s a feather-light touch on her cheek, a gust of warm breath. She likes this dream, the one where her husband still touches her. “Hermione,” dream Draco says, and she fists the duvet, clinging to the cobweb of fantasy. “Wake up.” 

She turns onto her side, and her mirage follows, phantom finger drifting across her ear, down to her jugular, where he taps out a secret in morse code. “We should talk,” he says. “I read your journal.” Hermione’s pulse quickens; is this a dream or nightmare? 

She’ll have to do this with real Draco soon enough; she doesn’t need a preview beforehand. She pulls herself through layers of sleep, desperate to avoid the nightmare version of conversation. 

Except, when Hermione opens her eyes, instead of disappearing, Draco stares back at her. She blinks, once, twice, and reaches for him, letting out a burst of breath when her fingers touch warm, solid flesh. 

“You’re here,” she whispers. Sleep still clogs her head, lending a surreal quality to the conversation. “What are you doing here? What time is it?” 

“Late,” he says. “You’ve been gone for hours. I searched the whole manor for you.”

He’s half-hovering over her, so close she can feel his warm breath. He lingers there for a moment and then sits back. 

“Sorry, I didn’t realize.” She blinks. “I was exhausted.” He’s sprawled across her side of the bed, a strange inversion of dynamics. 

“I suppose you exhausted yourself with the speech you made.” 

She flushes. There’s a levity to his tone she doesn’t know how to interpret. If he’s come to leave her, she can brace for impact, but if he mocks her while doing so, she’ll wither.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“You act like I don’t know you, Hermione Granger.” 

She’s in love with that voice of his, the indulgent tone he sometimes uses, like he’s letting her in on a secret she should already know. It’s been so long since she’s heard that specific tenor. 

“You were tired. I suppose it’s been a tiring few weeks.” He looks down; he’s holding her notebook. When he glances at her again, all his previous mirth has disappeared. “Why didn’t you tell me these things, Hermione? What you wrote.” 

“I–” The tips of her ears burn. “While you were comatose, I read pages to you. I don’t know if you–”

“I don’t remember anything, really, from then.” 

“Of course. It was silly, thinking that you would. I just–there were so many things I wanted to say to you.” She pinches the duvet corner. “I worried I was too late.” 

He shifts so that his knee folds, while his other leg dangles over the edge of the bed. Their hands are close, but not touching. 

“I wish you would have told me.” He looks at the notebook again. “We wasted a lot of time, didn’t we?” He exhales, the corners of his mouth dragging down. “ I thought about what you said, about how we’ve lost each other. And, Hermione, you’re right. I am angry.” 

She breaks eye contact, focusing on the woodgrain of the floorboards. She had told herself she could live with whatever decision he made, but now she feels like a liar. Her hands tremble as she knots them together.

His voice is even, devoid of accusation. “I’m angry that we stopped talking to each other and started assuming instead. You were in pain, and you pushed me away. But I stopped trying to talk to you as well.” 

He takes her hand then, sliding his thumb against the bones of her wrist. “I shouldn’t have gotten Theo involved, and I shouldn’t have made decisions for you. There are moments, Hermione, where I still can’t believe what our life became. I never thought I would wake up one day and not know how to talk to you, but it happened.” 

His grip on her hand loosens, and he continues. “Last week, after Cadric came, our problems seemed... _insurmountable_. The ways we hid from each other. I thought about how we would fix this, where we even would start, and I couldn’t find an answer. This isn’t the life we promised each other.” 

He touches her neck, tilts her chin so she’s looking at him through a tangle of hair. He’s still holding her hand, but this conversation feels like it may diverge at any point. 

“I thought if I fixed things for you, then we would be okay. I thought I needed to take care of you, but I was wrong.” A small smile tugs at his lips, the parenthesis around his mouth bunching up. “You’re Hermione Granger. You don’t need anyone to take care of you.”

She can’t find the words to correct him. She might not need him to take care of her, but she can’t imagine her life without him, even if she promised to try. She squeezes her eyes shut. 

Draco clears his throat.“But I’ve–we’ve– lost a lot of things already, and even if I could live without them, that isn’t the life I choose. That’s not what I want at all.” 

She opens her eyes to find the silver ocean of his irises, gaze darting across her face in rapid strokes.

“Draco, what are you saying? I’m not sure what you mean.” 

He swallows; a blotch of pink colors his cheeks. He’s nervous, she realizes. 

“I choose you. I choose this life, right here, with you.” He smiles then, a boyish grin. “Making this work. Rebuilding. Communicating. Things have to change, between us. We can’t be stuck in this cycle.”

He pushes back the hair clinging to her face, thumb tracing the outline of her lips. “But Hermione, we have so much time to do all of that. As long as you want to, with me. I love you. The rest–I know we can figure it out. Both of us. If you want it.” 

She can feel her composure breaking, the tiny cracks deepening, forcing a shaky inhale.“I do,” she says, and she’s laughing and crying, carbonation overflowing from her throat. “I always have.”

* * *

They’re lying in bed, facing each other. It’s past midnight already. She’s famished, but she can’t bring herself to get up. They’ve been talking for what feels like hours, what probably has been hours. Her voice is sore, but she worries that if they stop speaking the moment will evaporate; she’ll wake up from the dream. 

“Will your parents worry that you’ve been gone for so long?”

He laughs. “I’m not a teenager, anymore, you know.” 

“I know, but I just don’t want them to–”

He presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I told them we were moving out.” 

“What?”

He raises one eyebrow. “Unless, you’d prefer to stay?” 

“Of course not.” She freezes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He barks out a laugh. “I’ve wanted to move out since the first week. _Merlin_ , my mother is constantly fretting, like I’m a child.” 

“She loves you.”

“Are you defending my mother?” He leans on his elbow, chin resting in his palm.“Has there been a development of friendship I’m not aware of? An apocalypse I missed?”

“If you missed an apocalypse, I’d say it’s probably your own fault.” 

“I’m glad your swottiness has been preserved.” The lines around his eyes deepen as his mouth quirks up. “I’m glad some things stay the same.” 

* * *

In the morning, she wakes first, reaching towards his side. Her fingers slide against still-warm sheets, and she lurches up, panicked. The faucet springs to life through the closed bathroom door. She rubs her eyes, bundling the sheets around her. 

He emerges a few minutes later, hands damp. “Good morning,” he says. There’s a line across his cheek, an imprint of the bedsheet. She smiles, so wide her cheeks strain, and he gives her a funny look, nostrils flaring in amusement. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks. 

“Starving.” 

“I could make breakfast? Eggs? 

She presses her lips together. He hasn’t started solid foods yet. “We should go back,” she finally says. All his medical supplies are still at the manor.

She must be staring at his abdomen from the way his posture stiffens. “Right,” he says. “I guess we have to.” 

They’re quiet as they get ready, smoothing out the wrinkles in their clothes, locking the front door. 

Outside on the brick stoop, she admits, “I’m nervous.” 

“About my parents?”

She exhales and he curls his fingers against her knuckles. “Maybe. I just…”

He studies her for a moment and then tilts her head, resting a thumb in the space between her eyebrows. “You’re getting that look again, like something is about to go wrong.” He smoothes the furrow there. 

“I’m worried about what happens after we leave this house. We have–”

He kisses her voice away, slowly, tentatively, waiting for an invitation. Her mouth opens with an exhale, hands migrating from his shoulders to around his neck. He tastes of toothpaste; his tongue does a minty caress around hers, and she lets out an embarrassing breathy sound. His answering laugh vibrates her lips. 

* * *

By evening, she and Draco are packed, ready to leave the manor. They speak to Tabitha, and determine a visitation schedule to make sure he can continue receiving care. She gives them a surprised, but not disapproving, look. 

“Please try not to over-exert yourself,” she tells him.

“I don’t think my wife would allow it.”

At this, Hermione laughs, but dread coils inside her stomach. This is the easy conversation; they’ll have to speak with his parents soon.

In the cavernous living room, she and Draco sit on the couch, his hand resting on her thigh. She can feel Lucius’ eyes on her. She presses her lips together, holds his gaze, and slides her fingers against Draco’s. 

“It appears you two have reconciled,” Lucius drawls. He holds a crystal tumblr in his hand, and the whiskey gleams as he rolls his wrist. “Touching.” 

Draco clears his throat. “I’ve come to tell you, as a courtesy, that we’ll be moving back home.” 

“And how, pray tell, will you manage your care? Will your wife play nursemaid? Is that one of her–”

“Enough, Father. I’m not asking your permission.”

“Luckily, I’m not granting it.”

“But you must respect my decision.” 

Lucius smiles, a cruel twist of his lips. “Must I? Please, inform me, when did I start taking directives from my own son?” 

“I don’t want to argue about this. We’re already packed, but I wanted to tell you myself.” 

“How kind.” Lucius sips at the remaining citrine liquid. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness in the matter.” 

He rises; the _crack_ of his cane makes Draco clench, a tiny vein ticking against his jaw. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing left to be said then,” Lucius says, without looking at them. 

The geometry of the room ruptures: three occupants now, instead of four. Silence echoes in triplicate.

Draco drops his head, shoulders deflating.

“You should talk to your father,” Narcissa says. 

Draco exhales. “He’s already made his thoughts quite clear.” 

“Your father loves you, even if he lacks the words. He wants what's best for your care.”

Draco tenses, and then his fingers dance across the back of her hand; he looks at her, waiting. 

“We have time, if you want to try talking to him again. I'll wait.” 

His smile is a mixture of dread and gratitude. For a moment, Hermione considers what a privilege it is to still have two parents. It’s difficult to imagine Lucius as fatherly, but she could believe how certain loves aren’t always visible, how they needed excavation. 

Alone with Narcissa, Hermione attempts a smile. The other woman looks faintly amused at her efforts. “I do hope we’ll see you and Draco for dinner, on occasion.” 

Hermione gives a short, jerk with her head, not quite a nod. 

At this, Narcissa does laugh, a bright, airy sound. She rises to leave, smoothing down her skirt as she stands. Hermione fiddles with the frayed hem of her sweater, busying herself by pulling at a loose thread. She wants to thank Narcissa for her advice, but it feels disrespectful to voice right now, to thank her for releasing her son. 

* * *

She watches Draco eat, noting the way he favors his right side, how he licks his lips after every bite. She wants to become an expert in Draco Lucius Malfoy, study his nuances. It’s only been a week since they moved out of the manor, but it feels like much longer. He’s started eating solid foods again, soft textures first. Her head is titled, cheek propped against her palm.

“Did you really read all of my journal entries?” she asks.

He laughs, his grip on the spoon loosening. “Will there be a quiz?” 

“I’m just wondering. I know I fell asleep for a long time that night, but there were a lot of entries there. Did you read every single one?” 

Their dining room table is much smaller than the one in the manor, and he easily reaches over, sliding his thumb across her knuckles. “I did, eventually. But that night, I didn’t need to. I would have come even if I hadn’t read a single one.” 

“But you said–”

“Hermione.” He smiles at her, the crescents of his gums peeking through. “I would have come for you even if you hadn’t given that speech at all.” 

“You were so angry.” 

“But not forever. I could see you were trying. That’s all I needed, to know that you would try.” 

She squeezes his fingers. “I’m so worried I’ll get this wrong.” 

“This isn’t a test, Hermione. You don’t have to be perfect.” 

“I know, but I just–I have trouble trusting myself sometimes.” She tears at the corner of the napkin. “I worry that I won’t be able to find the right words again.” What a stupid thing to tell him, that she lacked confidence in her ability to fix this. There’s a familiar prick in her eyes, and she closes them. 

The chair _screeches._ “Then I’ll remind you,” he says. “And you’ll remind me, when I forget mine.” He thumbs her cheekbones.

“I’m sorry for always,” she says, gesturing towards herself. Her eyes leak. “I don’t mean to get emotional like this.” 

He laughs. “We can even go to couple’s counseling again, if you want.” 

“Really?”

“Yes, but no Susan.”

She smiles. “Of course, no Susan.” 

There’s a beat, and then they both start to laugh.

* * *

She has a letter, opened, partly-read on her desk. _I was so angry with you,_ the first line reads. Harry’s writing is a shock to her system. The words barely register at first; she’s so enraptured by the curl of his _s,_ the loop of his _g_ . She wades through the morass of her surprise, grasping for land only to shrink at what she finds. _I couldn’t believe what you did, Hermione_. 

A familiar chill seeps through her torso, concentrated in her solar plexus. She stares at the edges of the parchment, focusing on the creased center. Dimly, the sound of Draco’s footsteps float to her. He’s in the kitchen. There’s the _glug_ of water, the _thunk_ of the fridge closing. 

She touches the parchment again, pinches it between her pointer and thumb finger. The letters twist in her vision, strokes of ink tangling together. Vaguely, she becomes aware of a soft humming, the notes drifting through the half-open door. She strains to hear the rest, the melody Draco reverts to when he thinks he’s alone. Maybe he thought she was still upstairs. He doesn’t have a particularly melodic voice, and his pitch wavers as the song progresses. A muffled percussion starts, like he’s drumming his fingers on the counters, and the chill inside her thaws slightly. She tethers herself to him; her heartbeat slows, the panic in her chest loosening.

“Draco,” she says. The song stops. She hears him clear his throat. 

“Yes?”

She can imagine pink staining his cheeks, his slightly abashed look. 

“Nothing.” She smiles. “Just seeing what you were up to.” 

She puts the letter down. It could wait. Perhaps Harry was right, but still, it could wait. 

* * *

She loses herself in triviality, welcomes it: Tabitha, chores, errands. There are arrangements to make with the funeral home, logistics to navigate with her parent’s affairs. Draco has one follow-up appointment with his surgeon, a formality to avoid suspicion at his sudden disappearance. The doctor marvels over Draco’s expedited healing. “It’s like magic,” he says, and everyone in the room laughs. 

“How’s the pain?” the doctor asks, and Draco looks away.

“I’ll manage.” 

Sometimes, at night, she feels that familiar, bruised feeling in her throat. She succumbs to the nightmares about Draco’s body, his skin unzippered. During the day, she catches him bent over, fingers pressed to his abdomen. She tries not to fret over him. Or at least not to let him see her fret. She understands the necessity of pride, of preservation. 

The only time they’re apart is when she meets with her former ministry boss. “Is there still a place for me on the team,” she asks, and Calvin laughs. “As if anyone could possibly fill your shoes.” 

When she tells Draco this, he looks at her over the _Daily Prophet_. “You sound surprised,” he says. “But you are rather irreplaceable, to many people.” 

“I asked him if I could work from home, for the beginning.” 

She stares at him, worried he’ll shut down, offended at the idea of her hoovering presence. 

Instead, he puts down the paper. “Well, lucky me.” 

They’ve erected a forcefield around this peace they’re building. Time seems to move slower now that they’re home; she savors each moment, cocooned in the safety of Draco’s acceptance. Perhaps that’s why the letters catch her so off-guard. She comes home after dropping off onboarding paperwork to find three envelopes. Each has a wax seal: dark-red, green, and purple. 

She’s sitting on the couch, the letters splayed on her lap, when Draco walks in. 

“They’re worried you won’t see them,” he says. 

“I know. I read the letters.” She squints at him. “Are you going to try and convince me to see them?”

He laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I would never presume to have the authority or the ability to tell Hermione Granger-Malfoy to do something she doesn’t want to.” 

“I’m not even sure what we would talk about. I haven’t spoken to any of them since they came to visit you, and they’re inviting me to lunch?”

He frowns, eyebrows pulling down. “I was furious when they told me what they said to you at the hospital.” 

“They told you?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Pansy show remorse like that.”

“She’s in love with you, you know.” 

“I–”

She shakes her head, letting her amusement slip through. Had Pansy’s revelation even shocked her? In the grand spectrum of events, it felt miniscule, hardly worth introducing into this discussion. “It’s just something Pansy and I have in common.” She smiles. “I can understand why they were upset.” 

She recognizes the parallels between her, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise. Each of them would do anything for Draco, would lay down their lives, without question. She thinks of Ron then, and Harry, and how she had always felt that way about then, but how now she wasn’t sure of the reciprocity of her commitment. She hasn’t spoken to Harry in weeks now. 

Draco strokes her chin, a soft back-and-forth against the indent beneath her lip. “That doesn’t mean they had any right to speak to you that way.” 

She leans into his touch, thumbing the cable knit bottom of his sweater. 

“Let me think for a bit about what to say,” she finally says. “I want to find the right words.” 

Later that night, she sits in her office, the quill twitching between her fingers. It would be easy to ignore them. She didn’t particularly want to see Pansy, Theo, or Blaise. She wasn’t ready to see them yet. But she knew they were trying, and she wanted to acknowledge that.

“Thank you,” she finally writes, “for being such good friends to Draco.” 

There’s one more letter left, and she closes her eyes before reaching into the drawer. Touching the torn edge, she pulls the letter out, exhaling as she unfolds it. 

_Hermione,_

_I was so angry with you. Before, with everything. I couldn’t believe what you did. I still can’t, sometimes. I’m not writing this to blame you, or to relive any of this. I just want to be honest, once and for all, and to say that I was angry._

_I have so many things I want to say to you, but I know you don’t want to see me. I’m sorry I let you down. I sometimes think I still see all of us as 17-year-olds. Like we left Hogwarts but never let go of who we were. Maybe that’s idiotic, but that’s still how I feel sometimes: the boy who lived. I think I still see you as you were, before you left for Australia. I didn’t want to see how much things had changed. You’ve cleaned up my messes, so many of them. I’m not used to helping you with yours._

_I’m not doing this apology justice, but I don’t want to do it on parchment. I have a lot of things to say to you, if you’ll let me._

_Harry_

Her stomach cramps, a stab of twisted emotions she can’t unravel. Her brain blurs, a haze obscuring her thoughts. Did she miss Harry? She hadn’t let herself think about him much. She is trying to let go of what she couldn’t fix. 

Crookshanks pads into the room, weaving between her ankles, and she pulls back from the desk, her forehead sore from where she had rested it against the wooden edge. She drifts her fingers against Crookshank’s soft fur. 

“What a strange day it’s been,” she murmurs, and the cat purrs, circling his own tail.

She hears the leather couch creak, and she rises, padding into the living room. Draco has his feet pressed against the coffee table, a book cracked open on his lap.

“Draco,” she says, holding out the parchment. “Look what Harry sent me.” 

* * *

There’s a shyness to her interactions with Draco. She worries, constantly, about saying or doing the wrong thing. But there are moments, on the couch, against the kitchen counter, where he tangles his fingers in her hair, mouth gripping her neck, and she thinks he must feel the same ache. But he never takes it further. He traces the lace of her bra and then pulls back, a smile and pink flush to his face. “Sorry,” he says. “I got a little carried away.” 

She can feel him, pressing against her stomach, the way he moans into her mouth, how he pulls at the loop of her jeans, but they haven’t explored anything further. Her own hands demur: they travel under his shirt, but stay firmly above his belt buckle. 

One morning, she wakes to his lips whispering against her clavicle, her neck, her ear. His tongue is a hot, wet slide against hers, and then his fingers are tracing the hills and valleys of her spine. Her palm crests the slope of his chest, down the sharp line of his abdominal muscles, and then he lets out a sharp breath and pulls back.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. She had scraped against the fabric covering of his ostomy bag. “I didn’t mean–”

“No, it’s okay.” He rests his forehead against her shoulder, breath warming her skin. “I was just startled. That’s all.” 

The moment, she thinks, is gone. It’s worse this way, to have had an opportunity and then ruined it. But then he tilts his head, finding her lips again. He tugs her until they’re flush against one another, wedging his knee between her legs. Desire unspools in her abdomen, lighting her up. Her fingernails scrape through his scalp, and he moans, chest rising in violent pants. “Fuck,” he says. “I want you.”

She rubs against his knee, gasping against the friction. “Please,” she whispers. He guides her shirt off, and then the cold air hits her and she feels a flush tint her chest. She hasn’t been bare in front of him for so long. He stares at her, pupils blown, and she shifts to cover herself, but he pins her arms back. “No, don’t do that, let me see you.” 

His head dips, licking a path from one breast to the other, flicking his tongue against her until she whimpers. “Please.” She grasps at his shoulder as he descends, white-blond hair tickling her abdomen. He presses her hips into the bed, pulling off her underwear. 

“So beautiful,” he murmurs and then he gives her one leisurely lick. She can feel the pull of his smirk against her thighs as she lets out a loud, uneven moan. Her hands are in his hair, urging him on, scratching at his neck. “Bossy,” he chuckles before sliding one finger inside. She bucks, strangling the bedsheets, and she feels him smile against her skin.

“Do you like that?” 

She nods, makes an incoherent sound, and he thumbs at her: a gentle rhythm that shifts into a frenzied back and forth, setting her blood on fire.

 _"Fuck_.” She pulls at the collar of his shirt, wishing she could disappear it. “Draco, please make love to me.” 

He stills and looks at her. Crawling up, he plants a kiss on her shoulder, and then he grows unsure, tugging on a curl as he settles next to her. Their faces rest close together, but he stares at her chin, eyes unfocused. “I–You’ll probably be able to feel it during–” He gestures towards himself. “I’ll be getting it out soon. I know it might be strange for you. To feel it. We could wait.” 

She drags her finger down the slope of his nose, over the slight indentation of his smile lines. “Draco,” she says. “You don’t have to hide from me.” 

He tenses, and she wants to pull back her words. It’s the wrong thing to have said; she was always doing that, saying the wrong things with the right intentions. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just mean–”

“I know what you mean.” He kisses the inside of her palm. “But it’s a strange adjustment, isn’t it?”

She places her hand across his heart. “You’re my husband, Draco. No part of you is strange to me.” She kisses him, sliding her tongue along the seam of his mouth. “We can wait, if you want, but I want you. All of you.” 

He exhales, a forceful burst of breath against her lips. He dips his head, forehead pressing against her collarbone, and for a few seconds, all she feels is the strokes of his eyelashes against her skin. Then, he pushes himself up. “Let me just take a shower real quick. I’ll be right back.”

He rummages through the closet and then disappears into the bathroom. There is the sound of the toilet flushing, and then the beat of water against the shower tile. He emerges less than fifteen minutes later, hair damp and curling against his ears. He has a towel wrapped around his abdomen, and some kind black band around him, covering his injury.

He gestures towards himself. “Tabitha mentioned that this would be useful, if we–” The tips of his ears are pink. “So you wouldn’t have to see it.” 

He walks towards her, stopping at the edge of their bed. She sits up, knees pressing into the mattress as she kisses him, one hand looped around his neck, the other curling into his towel. She tugs. “Let me see all of you.” 

The towel pools near his feet.

She trails a finger through the line of golden hair below his belly button, kissing his shoulder as she does so. He makes a small noise, and then his hands are on her chin, tilting her head upwards. He kisses her, and she slides her hand lower, wrapping around him, giving him a gentle squeeze that forces an exhale from his lips. “Fuck,” he breathes.

She strokes him; his breaths turn to pants. He grows rigid in her palm, and she pushes against his lower back, encouraging him to bend forward, onto the bed, above her. 

She scoots backwards, until her head touches the pillows, but then he grips her thigh and navigates them so she’s sitting astride him. He presses one hand into her hip and the other moulds to her breast. She lowers herself, slowly, and his eyes close. She gasps at the pressure: a brief bite of pain, a deep stretching she’d gone long without.

“Okay?”

She nods. “Yes,” she says. “Very okay.” 

He starts a slow rhythm. Fire spreads across her veins, a heat missile centered where their bodies are joined, his hip bones scraping her thighs. 

Her hands press against his chest, and she slides them forward, until her mouth hovers over his. He slides a hand down her ribcage, trying to keep her suspended above the fabric, but she tugs at his fingers. “Draco,” she says, “I want to feel all of you.” 

There’s a moment of his hesitation, and then he pulls at her hips, pushing into her further. “Oh,” she breathes. “ _Oh_.” 

The fabric of the black band rubs against her stomach, and he presses his face into her neck, his words muffled. “Sorry,” he says. “Is the friction painful? I didn’t realize the fabric was so rough.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “It’s perfect. This is perfect.” 

His pace quickens then, fingers sneaking between them and stroking her until a familiar gelatinous pleasure builds in her marrow. He keeps repeating her name, _Hermione Hermione Hermione,_ like an invocation. His mouth sucks a bruise into her neck, edging her to the precipice until she unravels with a moan.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, hips canting furiously, fingers leaving little crescents on her hips. “Merlin, Hermione.” 

He kisses her, tongue coasting across hers before he bites down, softly, on her lower lip. Her thighs tighten against his hips, holding him close as the hollow at the base of his neck deepens. “Fuck, _fuck,”_ he whispers. The muscles in his chest bunch against her. She pulls back slightly, takes a moment just to watch him, how his eyebrows pull together. His teeth sink into the swell of his bottom lip as he thrust into her again, slower, fingers massaging the crest of her hip. 

She lingers for a moment, nuzzling into his throat, and then rises, using his chest for leverage. “I love you,” she whispers, and his smile spreads warmth down her spine. 

“I know.” He squeezes her hip, fingers dancing up her side. Her arms flop off his shoulders, boneless, useless as she untangles herself from him. “I love you too, Hermione.” 

“Did I hurt you? Are you–”

He shakes his head. “A good kind of pain.” He raises a brow. “The best kind.” 

* * *

On a placid day in April, Hermione buries her parents. It’s a beautiful day, actually. Bursting peonies, a tease of breeze, filegered clouds. It is nothing at all like she expects. It makes her ache that they aren’t there to see it. 

People appear out of the woodwork for the funeral, like mites hiding in wood. Suddenly, the distant relatives who ignored her letters appear, full of sympathy. She hugs people, a blur of faces. She shakes hands, her fingers loose and cold. There’s a speech; she wrote it, but she can’t remember the words and ends up pulling out a scrap of paper, all the ink dripping and smeared. 

“This is exhausting,” she whispers at one point. “They say funerals are for the living, you know?” 

Draco slides his hand across her neck, fingers warm and calloused. He’s been brewing potions lately. It’s too early to ask, but she wonders if he thinks of it as a future career. 

“Who said that? Tolstoy?”

She presses her face into his coat lapel and snorts. “No, Roeliff Brinkerhoff.”

“Oh.” He strokes her back, pressing a kiss against her forehead. “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t Tolstoy. I hate his writing.” 

She laughs then, louder, and her cheeks warm as people nearby turn towards her. They’re standing in the front, directly between the two coffins. The first palmfuls of dirt have already been scattered, but people are still gathered around, paying their respects.

She’s seen Pansy, Theo, and Blaise somewhere. The Weasleys too, all of them. Their hair is a shock of red among the funeral black. Harry’s there as well, his eyes and tone apologetic as he squeezes her shoulder. All her friends have shown up for her, even those she can't honestly label as friends these days. The coffins are edged with wreaths and flowers: spider lilies pressed against the thorns of rose bundles. 

There would be things to sort through. Arguments to untangle, apologies to exchange. She could believe of a lunch or dinner weeks–maybe, months–from now, with Blaise, Theo, and Pansy. Draco’s hand against hers under the table. She could imagine their lowered eyes, the awkward stillness in the air. She doesn’t know what she would say, if she would–could–smile, forgive them, fully. But she can imagine a future where she has forgiven them, where she does that, for Draco. And, maybe, for herself too. 

The crowd rustles, footsteps disturbing the silence as people filter down the hill and back to their cars. Soon, only the witches and wizards will remain, waiting to apparate. She turns and the Weasley are there, waiting to hug her, to whisper their condolences. Ron presses a kiss against her cheek that makes Draco’s hand stiffen on her shoulder. Ginny hugs her, hard. Pansy, Theo, and Blaise murmur something to Draco and then they touch her shoulder, each of them, carefully, and she doesn’t freeze or grow stiff. 

When Harry hugs her, he whispers, “I’m sorry,” and she gives him a tight smile. “I’d like to come by sometime,” he says. She hasn’t replied to his letter yet. She meant to, but the words kept evaporating. He looks so earnest now, eyes bright and green beneath his spectacles. She doesn’t say anything, but she squeezes his fingers. She thinks, eventually, she will have the right words for him.

She turns to her parents’ coffins, eyes tracing the glossy, lacquered surfaces. Draco’s hand slips into hers and she catches his smile. The lump in her throat softens slightly. She had been right, weeks ago, in thinking that time was irreplaceable: spidering out, tiny cracks against the surface of her life that grew and grew and grew until one day they shattered the glass holding them together.

You could never replace time, but if you were careful, you’d spend yours wisely, with someone you loved.

And for Hermione Granger-Malfoy, that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lastly, come say hi on tumblr [@icepower55!](https://icepower55.tumblr.com/)


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